


slow dancing in a burning room

by oopshidaisy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harry in Panties, Light D/s, Louis in Panties, M/M, Panties, Power Couple, Rimming, SO MUCH FLUFF, Strictly come dancing au, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a lot of panties, a lot of rimming, a lot of that, and then he's sort of a good dancer anyway or maybe just cute, because harry can lift louis up but he can still do twirls, but he and louis have CHEMISTRY, harry is a celebrity who's failing at life, harry will wear a pink feather boa at some point, he is not a good dancer, it becomes a music and lyrics au halfway through not gonna lie, louis is french, none of these tags make sense, okay so, pls imagine harry shimmying in leather trousers and that's it that's the fic, professional dancer!louis, sort of, the whole thing is An Ode To Louis, they get to the final even though harry CAN'T DANCE, they kiss at the end of a dance and bruno spontaneously combusts, those happen, traditional gender roles do not matter, with smut as well, you get the best of both worlds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopshidaisy/pseuds/oopshidaisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>strictly come dancing au ft. sexual tension, glitter, rimming, and too many references to hugh grant</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this really isn’t as angsty as the title makes it sound i literally just wrote it for harry shimmying in leather trousers. special thanks for the idea go to my homophobic mother, who briefly contemplated that the world is probably coming to same-sex couples on strictly *shudders*. (update 01/17 - hey, two years later my mum's actually not homophobic anymore but I still owe her for this lmao) additional inspiration is owed to that time h&l tried to ballroom dance to bhangra music, which is permanently etched in my mind. i don’t actually watch strictly very often so i’ve made a lot of that stuff up, with the excuse being that by 2017 stuff might have changed. i also know nothing about dance because exercise is my foe.

The call comes while Harry’s trying to write a new song, fingers stumbling over his guitar strings and hair on its third day of going unwashed. As creative processes go, he’s finding it a bit awful, but he’d promised his manager he was going to write more of the songs for the new album, shed the teen pop star image a little more. He’s getting on for twenty-three, and that shouldn’t be old but it is. His manager, Nick, is a lovely bloke, but he doesn’t sugar-coat things like that because he doesn’t see the point. The same goes for when Harry picks up the phone to him, now.

“You’ve been offered a place on _Strictly_.” Nick has never been one for hellos.

“ _Come Dancing_?” Harry barks out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The silence that follows tells him it’s not a joke. He’s never really been a follower of _Strictly_ – was more of an _X Factor_ man, himself, but he knows that no one goes on there but pathetic has-beens who don’t have a career left to speak of. He looks sorrowfully at his guitar.

“You don’t have to take it,” Grimshaw says, but he’s hedging at something. Harry’s been in the business for seven years now; he knows when his manager wants him to take a job.

“I can’t dance,” Harry says.

“Who gives a shit? You’re still pretty, love, you can make the crowd go wild. Just give ‘em some of that signature Styles charm, yeah, we’ll get you right back on top.”

Harry groans. “Who else is on?”

“They’ve got Matt Cardle signed on, Cher Lloyd. Zayn Malik, you know the model on those billboards? His boyfriend, too, the blond one who does stand-up. And, uh, some others, I wasn’t really listening.”

Harry perks up slightly. Zayn Malik isn’t a has-been; he’s pretty much as famous as they come. Harry can’t open a magazine without seeing his brooding, dark eyes staring up at him from the page. He starts to feel slightly more credible.

“Okay, Grimshaw, you’ve got me. Just this once. When _I’m A Celebrity_ calls, you turn them down, you hear me? I’m only doing this for the glittery spandex.”

“You’re the boss.” Harry can hear Grimshaw’s grin through the phone. It’s very annoying.

“Right, if that’s all…” he says, looking back at his guitar. He wonders if this newest obligation will get him out of doing the next album by Christmas. It’s not that he doesn’t like writing and touring and playing his music, but it’s gotten a bit depressing ever since he realised he was basically Hugh Grant in that film about the song writing. Or even just Hugh Grant in general. Harry’d spent two hours on the phone to Gemma on Monday swearing he’d found a grey hair.

“There’s one more thing, actually. You’ll like this one,” Nick says, in a way that just sounds vaguely ominous. “2017’s _Strictly Come Dancing_ will be the first series to ever include same sex couples on the dance floor!”

***

“Please welcome, our celebrities!” The presenter is very blonde and very bubbly, Harry thinks. She should do commercials _._ “The boys: Matt Cardle, successful recording artist!” That depends on your definition of ‘successful’, Harry considers thoughtfully. He wonders if they’ll introduce him the same way. “Nicolò Festa, Olympic gymnast! Aiden Grimshaw, songwriter for the stars! Niall Horan, stand-up comedian! Zayn Malik, up and coming model! Liam Payne, champion boxer! Paije Richardson, popular British actor! And, finally, last but not least, Harry Styles, teen heartthrob!”

He’s feeling a bit angry as he comes down the stairs in his very dapper suit: the fact that they couldn’t have called him a musician of any sort stings, and the fact that he’s still seen as a ‘teen heartthrob’ even though he’s not a teen anymore…well, that’s just sort of sad. Also, he’s getting a bit of a headache from the constant exclamation marks exploding behind his eyelids.

“The girls!” the presenter yells. Why is she yelling? She has a microphone. Harry thinks nothing about reality television makes very much sense. “Esther Campbell, hard-hitting journalist! Treyc Cohen, sexy jazz singer!” Harry feels a bit better at that. At least he isn’t being objectified. Yet. “Rebecca Creighton, stylist to the stars! Rebecca Ferguson, gorgeous model and mother of two! Geneva Lane, radio DJ from Radio 1! Cher Lloyd, female rapper!” Well of course she’s female, Harry thinks. She’s in the girls’ category. “Katie Waissel, fashion designer and icon! Sophia Wardman, celebrity chef!”

They all stand in a line on the dance floor, waiting for their professional dancers to be allocated to them. They actually all know who they’re getting, of course, but they’re meant to jump up and down and look surprised anyway. Harry, who’d skimmed the memo and hadn’t bothered to do a quick Google search (in his defence, he’s been in rehearsal with the choreographers of the show every day for the past month, trying not to trip over his feet for the Waltz), is eager to see which one of them is Louis Tomlinson. If it’s the one on the end with the cheekbones, he thinks he might not have to fake his excitement.

They’re not being filmed live, but there’s enough of the crew in the audience to make it look like it, and the lights are down and dancing all over the place, trying to build tension as a heartbeat pulse soars through the stadium. Tension indeed. It’s Monday. The show – or at least, the one Harry’s performing in – is on Sunday. How the audience falls for this kind of crap, Harry will never know.

Harry’s really not paying attention to the roll call until his name is called and he’s jerked out of his daydream and into cheekbones’ arms. Or, he should probably call him Louis. He might faint. The ‘audience’ gasps a lot, as if this is a scandalous development, and as if it wasn’t leaked three months ago that there were going to be same sex couples this series. His partner, Louis, is smiling at him, this little quirk of the lips smile that goes straight down into Harry’s belly and makes his knees feel weak. Louis is attractive, is the thing. And it’s not like Harry’s not seen attractive men before – he was just in the green room with Zayn Malik for half an hour, for god’s sake – but this one’s got gold glitter eyeliner and stubble on his cheeks and he seems to be radiating light everywhere, all sharp angles and curvy body. Harry will not be able to deal with tangoing with him, that much is for certain.

“Hello,” Louis says, raspy voice with the merest hint of a French accent. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Harry croaks. They’ve got their arms around each other, now, are standing in the line of dancing couples and smiling at the cameras. If this run-through doesn’t go well, they’ll have to do it again, and nobody wants that. They’ve got to start practising for Sunday, choreographing and then figuring out how to not fall on their faces. Harry’s going to be waltzing in front of millions of people; he needs all the practise he can get.

For some reason, it’s necessary to interview each and every person about this thrilling turn of events, and so Harry has to stand, sweating under the heavy lights, skin seared by his partner’s proximity, as everyone gives mundane, rehearsed answers to the dullest questions ever posed.

“So, Harry!” perky blonde lady chirps. “You’re the first male-male couple on _Strictly Come Dancing_! How does that feel?”

“Well, um,” Harry says, wishing he’d listened more during media training. “It feels really gay.”

They wrap up soon after that.

***

“ _It feels really gay_ ,” Louis mocks, as soon as they’re backstage. His laughter tinkles through their designated rehearsal space, and Harry’s definitely felt worse about being made fun of. “Genius, ‘arry, genius.”

He takes Harry’s wrist in his hand, taking him past the make-up and costume rooms and into a large foyer, down another corridor which leads to their studio.

“Thanks,” Harry says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So…waltzing?”

Louis grins at him. “How much do you know about dancing?”

“Not very much. These past few weeks, I’ve learned I’m not really very good at any of it, really. Apart from lifts, I can do those.” Louis quirks an eyebrow at him. “I kept tripping.”

“Over your partner?”

“Over myself,” Harry admits. “I’m afraid I’ve sort of got two left feet. The only dancing I did on tour was, well, dad dancing.”

Louis looks personally affronted. “But you’re a _musician_ , ‘arold. You should have… _rhythm_ , and – ”

“I really don’t. So if you were hoping to win, or anything, that’s sort of probably not going to happen. Sorry,” Harry says bashfully, looking down at the plastic-coated floor. There are mirrors everywhere, lining every wall, bar running along them (Harry hopes he won’t have to do those ballet dancer stretches on them – although he does plan on wearing a tutu). It’s the most stereotypical dance studio imaginable, right down to the black duffel bag in the corner.

“That’s fine, ‘arry, we’ll whip you into shape in no time. You’ll move across the floor like – like…I don’t know, something graceful.” He waves a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that everyone can be a dancer, if they put their soul to it. Of course, reality television – ” He wrinkles his nose. “You’ll need to change, first.”

He goes to the duffel bag, taking out two sets of clothes. Black t-shirt and leggings, one each. Harry looks around for a changing room, but when he glances back Louis is simply stripping in front of him, shown from every side by the mirrors. He can suddenly quite acutely feel the movement of blood through his arteries, and there’s nowhere to look that isn’t slowly revealing Louis’ golden skin to him, so he figures it’s just time to do what he does best and throw away all of his dignity and shame. Years of humping microphone stands has taught him things.

Once they’re both changed, Louis smirks at him like he’s been privy to Harry’s thoughts for the past minute or so. The leggings are not really improving Harry’s situation, as Louis’ legs are as curvy as the rest of him: thick thighs and strong calves. He didn’t sign up for this.

“We’ll be in suits on Sunday, of course,” Louis says conversationally. Harry’s pretty sure if he tried to speak now it would sound something like a cross between a mouse and a frog. He’s also fairly certain that he will not be able to concentrate on footwork with Louis in a tux. It’s just not going particularly well for him. “And most practises you can wear what you want, but today you came in _sweatpants_.” There’s enough derision in his tone that Harry feels a bit defensive. Of sweatpants.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Fine for eating crisps at home,” Louis snaps. “ _Not_ fine for dancing in. You must wear tight fitting, so that you can move.”

Harry nods, starting on some of the stretches yoga has taught him. He’s half doing it because he wants to show Louis he’s not completely useless – can do some things for himself, but the other reason is that he knows how good his biceps look when he’s doing this. He’s been reliably informed by at least several teenage girls. Louis blinks at him for a few seconds before clearing his throat and reaching into the bag again, this time pulling out a clear plastic case with a CD inside. He disappears into the cupboard on the far wall and when he reappears moments later, music is drifting through the room.

“You’ll start on the stairs…” Louis begins.

***

Harry thinks there might be a few too many rhinestones on his suit. He’s a person who likes some glitter, sure – he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t, but he feels slightly like a bad Elvis impersonator. The only thing making it slightly bearable is that Louis – who had been becoming increasingly snappy with him all afternoon, as the show drew ever nearer – keeps telling him he looks wonderful (and that maybe the outfit will distract from his dancing, but Harry’s blocking out that part). Louis’ wearing white, too, and it’s just as horrible as Harry had predicted (the white offsets his tan, makes his eyes brighter blue, Harry is dying inside) but there are markedly less gems on his one. As Louis’ going to be leading the dance, Harry guesses this makes him the ‘girl’. He’s remarkably okay with that. The human race needs time to adjust to same sex couples, and it’s up to him to make that transition a little easier. Also, being pulled around by Louis is fast becoming his favourite thing.

So he starts on the stairs, to the right of the judge’s table, and he has to walk down, left-right-left-right, don’t trip. He meets Louis at the bottom, gets held by him, twirled around into his chest, they sway, Harry twirls Louis round and they stay side-by-side—

“You’re muttering to yourself, do you know that?” Louis asks, coming to sit beside him. Harry feels jittery, even more so when Louis places a hand on his knee.

“I just want it to be good.”

“It will be,” Louis nods. After the insults he’s been hurling all afternoon – and all week, really, but they reached their peak today – it’s a 180. Relaxing, though. Harry rests a head on Louis’ shoulder, takes a breath. “You’re not the best dancer, but we’ve got something none of this lot are going to have.”

“What?” Harry whispers into Louis’ neck. He could get used to this.

“Chemistry.” Harry can feel Louis’ smirk more than see it, can feel it in the way his air huffs past his lips – the shadow of a laugh – and the way his pinkie finger starts to trace the inseam of Harry’s trousers: up, down, repeat.

They do have chemistry, he thinks. It might just be how he’s practically drooling over Louis, feels safe in his arms and wants to jump him at least seventy per cent of the time. But it could be – and he hopes it is – something deeper, how they feed off each other’s energy and press close and move in fluid motion. Harry’s still clumsy with it, yes, misses out his two-step and bends his arm the wrong way, turning in entirely the wrong direction when Louis tries to spin him, but there’s something deeper than that. Something about physical connection that’s so much more than technical accuracy or skill. Harry can feel it buzzing in his veins, feels light-headed with it and the way Louis smells, the way he engulfs all that Harry can see or feel.

“Are you ready?” Louis breathes, hot against the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry nods, tries to remind himself that this is a Waltz – generally considered a rather classy dance – and humping Louis on the dance floor might be seen as a bit of a faux pas in some circles.

Half of the couples have already performed, yesterday, and they’d all been varying degrees of awful. Tonight, Harry and Louis are on straight after Matt and his partner, Melanie, who are both as stiff as boards, and Harry feels like he’s been injected with some confidence at that.

He goes to take his place on the steps as the lights are down, looks to Louis who’s standing central on the floor, patterns tinted blue swirling beneath his feet. It’s all TV manipulation, all a couple of light technicians, but in that moment it feels a bit magical.

After a couple of beats, the music comes up – the soft opening notes to Adele’s _Someone Like You_ , the most cliché song they could have chosen, honestly. Still, Harry thinks it might be a bit early, but the song seems to take up a place in his heart. He thinks that sometimes it’s less about the lyrics of a song (although he can relate to those, too, can relate to the feeling of falling in love and knowing it’s a hopeless pipe dream) and more about the way the notes soar around them and cover them. He manages to put one foot in front of the other, not distracted by Louis’ footwork as he dances, pixie-like, across the floor – towards Harry. They meet at the bottom of the steps, Louis’ hand reaching for Harry’s waist and Harry’s hand falling into Louis’ as they turn a circle, feet gliding across the floor, Harry’s other hand being brought up to rest on Louis’ cheek. Louis’ eyes twinkle at him, all soft smiles and gentle touch. This afternoon, he’d been practically hauling Harry around the floor. Now they’re in sync, two equals in the dance. They spin until Louis effortlessly turns him around, letting Harry fall back against his chest, their arms twisting but staying interlocked. They move together, back and forth, and there’s a whole audience but Harry’s twisting his head to fit it into Louis’ neck. Everything moves so fast – the dance itself is only a minute long – each moment minutely choreographed, and they switch the lead halfway through, so that Harry can hold Louis in his arms, spin him in circles that surpass Harry’s in grace by miles.

It’s like they gravitate closer with every new step, faces so close Harry can feel the fan of Louis’ breath across his lips. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way, and Harry’s actually relieved when Louis draws back again, because in a Waltz the partners are meant to keep their posture upright – right, Harry remembers now. There’s a thousand thoughts – technicalities – rushing through his mind but mostly all he can think is _Louis_. By the time they’re properly moving and spinning around the floor, Louis has the lead again, is urging Harry to go with him without pulling. It’s nothing like Harry had thought it would be. It’s almost as if his muscle memory is allowing itself to be manhandled once more, even though Louis’ only expending the slightest pressure. It’s only then that Harry realises what a good teacher Louis really is.

He gets dipped, feels like gravity is pulling him towards Louis instead of the ground, extends a leg because if there’s one thing he can do with regards to dance it’s be flexible. (He’s also pretty strong, but Louis says they’re not there yet.) The pace picks up as they rise and fall like the personification of breathing: inhale, up, exhale, down. He can’t keep the smile off his face; his cheeks ache with it, and as the chorus swells, the lyrics “ _sometimes it lasts in love_ ” tumbling from the singer’s mouth, their hands go to each other’s faces – like rehearsed, but different. More like it’s love. It’s a ridiculous thing to think, in the passion of the dance, and Harry misses a step as his heart stumbles over it. He sees the corner of Louis’ mouth twitch, displeased, but he smiles – fond again – when Harry lifts him only slightly off the ground, spinning them so that Louis’ legs fan out and when they press back in together, close, there’s pink in his cheeks as the song draws to a close.

“That was so good,” Louis whispers, breathless, in his ear. Harry feels a bit like he’s flying.

The breathe each other’s air for a few more moments, neither willing to move, until the presenter – Miss Blonde and Bubbly – comes and gently pulls them apart, over to the judges’ table. They’re in a formidable line, and Harry’s used to getting judged but it’s not generally by people who aren’t behind a computer screen, so his adrenaline pours out as he starts shaking, enough that he knows Louis can feel it, too. He jolts when Louis grabs his hand, traces soothing circles into his palm.

“It was magical, it was _sensual_ ,” Bruno begins, gesticulating wildly. “It was _intimate_. When you moved, there was _connection_.” Harry feels like this must constitute a misuse of emphatic speech, but he’s got this warm feeling bubbling up in him, from Louis’ hand in his and the praise that’s propelling Bruno out of his seat.

The next judge is Craig, the most notoriously difficult to impress. Harry holds his breath, but the praise keeps coming. Admittedly, Craig makes a few snide comments about posture – which Bruno shouts down – and he mentions Harry’s slip-up – Bruno literally gets to his feet and starts yelling about emotion. Darcey and Len are slightly more reserved, equally serving constructive criticism and praise. Then the presenter’s back with her microphone in Harry’s face, asking him what he thinks – of the dance, of the judges’ feedback, of his costume.

“I just think, I really couldn’t have asked for a better partner,” Harry smiles, squeezing Louis’ hand.

***

Upstairs, they join the rest of the dancers with yet another female presenter, who asks _more_ questions so they can build tension before the judges reveal their scores. Harry can barely speak through his giddiness, so Louis has to take most of the questions. “ _Yes, we’re glad it went well; yes, rehearsals have been excellent, thank you._ ” He sneaks a kiss onto Harry’s cheek when the camera pans back to the judges, who are “ _ready with their scores!_ ”.

They get two sevens and two eights, which is higher than Harry thinks anyone else got, even Zayn, who did a Tango that got a standing ovation, possibly more because of his cheekbones than the substance (although the dance was amazing – it’s just that Zayn’s cheekbones are the kinds of things sonnets are written about, Harry thinks). So they’re at the top of the leader board and Harry’s not even sure he cares about anything except how bright Louis’ eyes look, how he’s jumping onto the balls of his feet and clapping his hands together excitedly. Harry knows they’re on camera, and he also knows he’s looking at Louis like an embarrassing, love-sick fool, but he can’t bring himself to look away. It’s like he’s entranced, unable to look at anything but Louis.

It’s been the same all week, he thinks, from their first practise together. When Louis was disappointed or angry with him, Harry would feel like his insides were curling around each other, slick and churning (but also slightly turned on because of how Louis’ eyes went hard when he got angry, and one time he pushed Harry up against the wall effortlessly even though Harry had to be at least half a head taller and bulkier with it, and pushed his fingers into Harry’s hips so hard they left red marks for a couple of hours afterwards, murmuring, “ _This_ is how our position will be. Do you feel it? Good. Now put your hand on my neck.”) It made him want to do better, though, made him want to please Louis and make him light up with pride, which didn’t happen very often but only made Harry’s heart thump loud when it did. He hadn’t thought dance was ever something he’d care about being good at – and he still didn’t, really. But if being good at it would impress Louis, then, well, Harry was all too happy to regress to primary school seduction techniques.

“Well done, love,” Louis presses the words into Harry’s ear even as the presenter yells on about scores and leader boards. “You were beautiful out there.”

***

They watch it back together – all of the contestants – in the green room the following day. Harry almost wishes they didn’t have to, because he’s tired already since Louis’ been running technical drills since six in the morning and he’s going to have to go home to a bed that doesn’t have Louis in it, but he does perk up when their section rolls around.

“ _Harry Styles has been a pop star and all-around heartthrob since the tender age of sixteen_ ,” the voiceover claims, “ _so he’s no stranger to the spotlight_.”

Then there’s footage from the interview he’d done weeks ago. “It was a bit weird, suddenly going into it that young,” his onscreen persona says. “I was never a very good pop star, really. I’ve never been able to dance!”

It’s edited together with some of the footage from the last week, after he’d first met Louis. “I’m really glad to be able to be a part of the first male-male couple on _Strictly_ , and I’m so thrilled to get to do it with Louis. He’s an absolutely _brilliant_ dancer…”

The Louis that’s next to him whispers, “You liar. You’d never seen me dance before in your life.” Harry giggles.

The next interview is with Louis, wearing a mesh top that shows off way more than any top should ever have a right to. “I’m looking forward to working with ‘arry, yes. My little sister has a poster of ‘im on her wall, right next to _Justin Bieber_.” He snorts. On the screen, his French accent is exaggerated far more than in real life, and the real Louis explains, “The viewers like it. Makes me seem all exotic. I actually only lived in France until I was ten, and my parents are English.”

“Where’d you live after that?” Harry asks softly.

“Up in Doncaster. Sometimes I slip right into a Donny accent,” Louis says, doing it right then and there. It’s a little bit jarring, honestly. Like there are two Louis’. The one on screen is still nattering on in the melodic sounds of French, while this one has the twang of a real Northerner.

There’s footage from rehearsals, too, a lot of Harry stumbling around and laughing like an idiot while Louis shakes his head at him. There’s a little bit too much emphasis on the part where Harry didn’t quite know his right and left, and Harry blushes as he watches. There’s also some footage of when Louis had tried to twirl him and he’d just gone in entirely the wrong direction, making them both dissolve into helpless, giddy laughter, even as Louis reprimanded him and told him he’d have to do better.

On screen, the dance begins, and Harry has to turn his head into Louis’ shoulder because of how overwhelming it is, to hear the opening notes of the music, to feel it all flooding back to him, all the emotions beating through his chest. Louis seems to understand – rests his hand in Harry’s hair and scratches lightly, giving him something else to focus on. The thing is, Harry’s never liked watching back things he’s done – interviews or concerts or the like. He’d mentioned it in passing to Louis, back on their second day together, when Louis had suggested recording their rehearsals so Harry could watch it back and figure out how to improve. Harry hadn’t expected him to remember, but there’s an understanding passing between them, a flicker of something in the small space between them.

Their dance was the last of the show, so it’s wrapped up soon after that. There were no eliminations this week, because it was preliminary stages, so this time the pressure’s on, and everyone’s eager to disperse.

Harry and Louis are some of the last ones out, but when they get back to the studio it’s straight back to work. They’re dancing the Cha Cha this week, and Louis insists it’s not just an opportunity for them both to shake their butts a lot (Harry insists that it is at every given opportunity). There’s also even more cameras following them now that they’re top of the leader board, and they’re buzzing around like flies every time Harry slips up.

They ask him questions while he’s meant to be practising, and he answers as best he can, but when they ask him about his blossoming relationship with Louis, his throat closes up a little and he doesn’t know what to say. “We’re good friends” feels too casual, like Harry’s world doesn’t orbit around Louis, hasn’t shifted on its axis to accommodate for him. “I’m in love with him” also seems like the wrong way to go, though.

***

“We should wear pink,” Harry announces out of nowhere. Last week, he hadn’t been much involved in the fashion process, but he’s very proud of that award he won back when he was seventeen (has it framed and everything) so dammit if he’s not doing to submit some creative input. The stylist looks vaguely amused.

“Why, so people can be _absolutely sure_ you’re gay?”

“No,” Harry says defensively. “It’s just that kind of dance. All happy and bright. And pink suits me.” It does. He hadn’t gotten the chance to wear it very often towards the beginning of his career – morality clauses and all that – and has subsequently developed a deep fondness since coming out almost a year ago now.

Harry looks at the choices of clothing that are hanging on the rack. There’s one of those shirts that hangs wide open in the colour he’s imagined, and he quite likes the idea of wearing that on the weekend. There’s also a pair of leather trousers, which…yes. Definitely a good idea.

“Let him choose,” Louis says, waving a hand. “If it makes him a better dancer – ”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, because he’s already said every variation of making fun of Harry’s dancing. It’s worse this week because of how – for a couple’s dance – they spend a surprising duration of it not touching one another. Without Louis supporting him at all times, Harry is extremely liable to fall or turn in the wrong direction or just generally mess up in some humiliating way that makes Louis either laugh at him, or give him the disapproving glare that Harry has such a confusing relationship with.

Just for that comment, though, Harry takes great pleasure in picking out Louis’ outfit while he’s in the toilet. There are some pink trousers that are practically leggings, complete with a few tasteful sparkly tassels, and there’s a black shirt that Harry thinks really complete the look. Louis actually physically recoils when he sees it. It’s wonderful.

“I’ll get you back for that,” Louis whispers into his ear as they leave the room, Harry waving cheerfully to the designer.

He does, as well. They run step drills for two hours, until Harry is literally pouring with sweat and feels like his feet are going to drop off at any given moment. Louis, meanwhile, has a vaguely sadistic smile still fixed on his face, and is barely breathing heavier than normal, even though he’s been doing the exact same thing. Harry goes to the gym on a regular basis – he doesn’t deserve this.

“Tired?” Louis asks laughingly. Harry flips him off, trying to concentrate on doing the correct footwork. He knows Louis will get him to do it a hundred more times if he doesn’t do it right. At least he’s definitely improving. “Okay, okay, you can stop,” Louis says. He might actually be giggling. Harry wants to lie down for a hundred years. “Let’s take a break for lunch, yeah? We can get that weird health sushi you like.”

And that’s probably the best thing about Louis, Harry thinks. He’s mean – mean because he has to be, because it’s his job, and because he takes pride in his work – and it does actually serve to make Harry improve. But underneath all of that he’s a huge softie; he talks about his pet dog back home in Doncaster for a solid half an hour and mentions his younger siblings almost every other sentence, and he remembers every little tit-bit of information that Harry shares with him, laughs at his jokes, and tells him he looks pretty. Harry can’t figure out if the flirting’s entirely on purpose, or if it’s just another way of making Harry perform well. Either way, it’s working.

They go to the sushi place, even though Louis insists that _raw fish_ go against _nature_. He’s very passionate about it, and other patrons look at him with a mix of amusement and confusion. Harry feels a bit the same, really.

“So I was thinking,” Louis says. It’s not a promising start. So far, any time Louis has started a conversation with these words, it has been disastrous for either Harry’s muscles or his libido. Sometimes both. “We’re the token gay couple, right?”

Harry nods, because they are.

“What if we give them something to talk about, eh?” Louis suggests, mischief glinting dangerously in his eyes. “The Cha Cha’s like…it’s sort of a sexual dance, which is why we’re spending most of it gyrating against thin air, and I was thinking, I saw this version of it a couple years back…”

***

So Louis wants Harry to grind on him. Okay, not quite, but Harry’s fairly sure that having Louis behind him, wrapping his arms around Louis’ neck and sashaying his hips really _really_ close to Louis’ crotch constitutes as at least semi-grinding.

People are certainly going to be talking about it.

Harry’s main fear is that he’s chosen the kind of tight trousers in which you can’t just get away with doing stuff like that in front of millions of people. If he gets hard – like there’s an _if_ – it’s going to be disgusting obvious to everyone involved. Louis _knows_ this – or at least, he must do, because out of the hundred times they’ve rehearsed it already, Harry has had an erection at least half of the time. There’s no way Louis’ not seeing it – he’s just not mentioning it. Harry’s not sure whether he’s relieved or even more embarrassed. And it’s not – like, he’s not seventeen anymore. He doesn’t just get a hard-on at a gust of wind, but there’s something about not being able to quite _touch_ Louis – not in the way he wants to, at least – that makes him feel desperate and slutty and so fucking turned on.

They take a break as the sun’s beginning to set, Harry slumping to the floor immediately and downing half of his water bottle in one go.

“That was good,” Louis says, and Harry’s not even sure if he’s being mocked. “You really got into it.”

Harry feels his cheeks turn red and lies back on the floor, barely keeping from groaning out loud. The thing is: Louis really sounds genuine in his praise. He’s always quick to tell Harry when he’s done something right, what he thinks it’s going to look like for the audience. And normally, Harry loves it, feels high on the fact that he’s made Louis happy, but today he’s just sexually frustrated and tired, and he only manages to grunt in reply.

He’s pretty much accepted, at this point, that Louis is not going to have sex with him. He’s had plenty of opportunities to proposition Harry, especially as Harry’s in a state of perpetual thirsty-for-Louis (honestly, at least five of the other contestants have made fun of him for it) and all Harry can think is that he’s wither the most oblivious idiot in the entire world, or he has a thing about not sleeping with the people he dances with. (Or he’s not attracted to Harry at all – but that can’t be right. They have chemistry, Harry’s been reliably informed.)

He just knows this weekend is going to be a nightmare.

***

They’re on second from last, which means a lot of waiting around in the contestants’ area, clapping and cheering for the other dancers. They watch Sophia and her partner dance the Tango to _Sing_ , by Ed Sheeran (Harry whispers excitedly about what a great mate Ed is; Louis pinches his hip and tells him to focus), garnering a respectable 26 points. Then Treyc performs the Charleston, getting a score so low that it’s almost embarrassing, and even the perpetually happy presenter can’t think of a way to inject optimism into the dancers. By the time it’s the dance before Harry and Louis’ (Esther and her partner doing the most boring Waltz Harry has ever watched) Liam Payne is unexpectedly at the top of the leader board. Louis seems happy about it, says that Liam’s partner, Leigh-Anne, is one of the nicest professionals.

“Hey, wanna bet?” Louis asks, as they’re being herded to take their places.

“On what?”

“On who’s leaving this week.”

“That’s mean, though,” Harry says uncertainly. He thinks about how upset Aiden had looked when he’d finished his Waltz.

“Oh, c’mon, let’s have little fun,” Louis smirks. “I’ll bet you it’s Cher.”

Cher had tangoed to a Spice Girls song, and had spent the entire thing appearing slightly intoxicated as she moved clumsily around the floor, although she’d garnered 20 points for it. Despite himself, Harry felt confident he could beat Louis in a bet.

“I think it’s gonna be Treyc,” he says before he can help himself, and Louis smirks.

“You can’t just choose whoever’s lowest on the leader board,” he argues, but he’s stretching out his hand for Harry to shake. “It’s _on_ , Styles.”

They separate to go to their marks, and Harry’s smiling to himself as their song, Whitney Houston’s _Million Dollar Bill_ , begins. There’s a lot of arm movements in the Cha Cha, and even as he feels a bit stupid he tries to shake his hips as much as possible, imagines the audience as people who’ve come to his shows. He knows whatever Louis’ doing is far more impressive, but there’s a lot of sensual touching of his own hair involved in this particular section, and he’s more than down for that.

He gives himself a moment to be annoyed that Louis always makes him start on the stairs as he tries to skip down them in rhythm. Louis’ doing the same on the other side, but he’s not someone who’s been known to simply fall on the ground for no apparent reason at strange moments.

This dance is a lot faster than the Waltz, and as a result Harry can feel that his steps aren’t quite quick enough, feels clumsy with it. He can rely on Louis for some bits, but when he’s trying not to move his lips around the words “two, three, cha-cha-cha” to help him stay in time, he can feel Louis’ disappointment radiating like a physical thing, and it’s so much that he gets through the scandalous section (the audience gasps appropriately) without a single hitch. He’s even fine with the part they’d added on Wednesday, where Louis falls to his knees and Harry has to spin around right in front of his face, continuing to shake his arse. (Well, he’s mostly fine with that part. He still thinks that it’s a deliberate effort on Louis’ part to _torture him_.) For the most part he feels like he does okay, but it’s definitely not as good as last week. It’s certainly not as effortless.

Harry feels a sinking sensation in his chest as they go to stand in front of the judges, Louis’ hand resting on the small of his back still.

The comments aren’t as bad as they might have been. Bruno still calls it “sexy” and “steamy”, but Craig makes some disapproving noises and talks about how Harry should try to pick up the pace a bit, stay in time. Harry’s learning that they’re the two to actually pay attention to, as whatever Darcey or Len say will generally just be a statement that’s slightly less passionate than Bruno’s, and slightly less mean than Craig’s. All things considered, it’s quite a complimentary panel, and Harry feels relieved until they’re going up the stairs to be interviewed and Louis’ grip is tight on his wrist.

The interview goes well, although it’s somewhat odd for a professional dancer to admit “he could’ve done better, yes; well we’ll just have to work harder next week” and if it weren’t for Louis’ unceasing harsh grip on Harry, Harry would think that everything was fine. There’s something about the touch, though, that’s rendering him speechless and nervous and makes his tongue feel heavy in his mouth.

As it turns out, after the final dance (Zayn with the Charleston) they’re still joint fifth on the leader board, which gives them a pretty good chance of getting through to next week.

Louis doesn’t seem to be thinking about that, though, as he hauls Harry through the sprawling corridors of the studio and into a bathroom, making sure it’s empty before he pushes Harry up against the wall. It’s quite a posh toilet, Harry notes, so he’s less worried about getting piss on the back of his shirt than he might have been.

“You did it better in rehearsals, ‘arry,” Louis breathes, a lilt of teasing to his harsh voice, accent coming through a bit thicker than normal.

“I – I know,” Harry says. Rehearsals had gone pretty well, actually, although he’d had to go wank in the toilets afterwards, so it really depended on from which perspective you were talking from. Dancing-wise, though, it was better.

“What happened?”

Harry’s starting to feel a bit like he’s not in his own body, and he has to swallow twice before he can answer. “It was really fast, and I couldn’t think – ” He breaks off, trying to think of the real reason. “Was embarrassed,” he finally mumbles.

“Why?”

With Louis as close as he is, it’s slightly easier for Harry to admit, “Didn’t want everyone to see how much – how much I wanted you.”

Louis smirks and presses his lips right below Harry’s ear, where he can probably feel Harry’s pulse thudding. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmurs.

Then he turns and leaves.

***

Harry doesn’t think Louis is _cruel_ , exactly; it’s more that he thinks that Louis sees Harry’s emotions as more of a game than he probably should. Like, when they’re in interviews and Harry’s trying to give answers about how “yes, that was the worst we’d ever done it, I’m going to try much harder next week” and Louis’ hand will just inch down until it’s covering Harry’s bum, and Harry will squeak or blush or otherwise embarrass himself. This is has happened on three separate occasions already.

The thing with interviews, too, is that they’re supposed to exaggerate everything to the extreme. So Harry has to say things that he doesn’t even mean, like that he’s “so disappointed in himself” or “I was so upset” and then Louis, without fail, will try to out-do him, make the story even more dramatic or just add in a not-so-sneaky innuendo.

“Oh, he was just inconsolable,” Louis will say, lips twitching. “The dance was just so _hard_ for him, you see, I had to comfort him for _hours_ afterwards.”

And so on.

Harry hasn’t done this many interviews since he was doing his third tour (the last one with the ability to sell out in minutes) and he’s just a bit unused to it. Having Louis around as a distraction is just making things worse.

Even when they’re in the studio and he’s getting a single interview, Louis will be hanging around behind the camera, pulling silly faces which never fail to make Harry laugh, or obscene gestures which just end in a copious amount of blushing. They’re starting to ban Louis from entering if Harry’s doing a personal interview.

Harry tries to give back as good as he gets, and has started to consume a frankly concerning number of bananas per day, making sure to eat them as lewdly as possible while Louis watches. Louis seems unaffected, though, and Harry' beginning to lose hope. There's only so many times you can deep throat a fruit before you start to feel a little ridiculous.

Louis also makes sure that the cameras get a lot of good shots of the rehearsals – of him pinching Harry’s bum or suddenly jumping onto his back or trying to teach him the lift from _Dirty Dancing_. Harry won’t admit his crush to anyone – not even his sister, who keeps phoning Harry after he appears on _It Takes Two_ (the talk show for _Strictly_ ) and asking him for all the details on Harry’s secret affair with Louis. Harry has to assure her that if there really was an affair with Louis going on, she would be the first to hear all the details about his cock.

“God, really? I think you should check your Twitter,” she tells him.

Harry does, and it appears that his Twitter’s been blowing up in his absence. Before he’d started on the show, he’d had just under a million followers – now the number’s nearing two million. And when he goes through his mentions, almost every one is about how blatant his love for Louis is, or Louis’ love for him is, or how they’re just simply the cutest couple in the world…

“They call us ‘Larry Stylinson’,” Louis informs him, sitting down next to him in the corridor. He’d obviously got bored of waiting in the studio for Harry to finish his call. “What did I tell you about Twitter breaks? You said you were going to phone your sister.”

“I did call her,” Harry says defensively. “And she told me to check my Twitter.”

There’s silence before Louis clears his throat somewhat uncomfortably. “Listen, Harry, if you don’t like it when I – like, y’know, when I’m flirting or, um, making fun of you, then you just need to… I would never – ” It’s the most unsure of himself Harry’s ever seen him.

“Louis,” he says, resting a head on Louis’ shoulder. “If I didn’t like it, I’d tell you. I – I really do. I like you, and I like how you are with me. It’s that simple.”

Louis lets out a nervous exhale of laughter and fiddles with the curls near Harry’s ear. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s get back to this Quickstep, then.”

***

The Quickstep, predictably, is not Harry’s sort of dance. It’s Hollywood week, so they’re dancing to _Be Our Guest_ , from _Beauty and the Beast_ , and the theatrics are up. The problem – as well as Harry’s continuing dislike of fast tempo songs – is that he can’t act, either. He did a special on _iCarly_ about five years ago, and he’s fairly sure he hasn’t improved since.

“So the song is like – it’s like me wooing you,” Louis explains, and Harry raises his eyebrows. “Shut up. You have to, at first, be reluctant, and then get into it more as it goes on. Like I’m pulling you into the dance.”

They have fun choosing Harry’s outfit for the week, if nothing else. Louis insists that it is absolutely necessary for him to have his curly hair gelled into his head, and a huge pair of fake glasses, alongside a tweed jacket and bowtie. He tells the stylist it’s very important. Harry thinks this is the only time Louis has been happy to spend two hours without practising.

Of course, Louis gets to wear red trousers with braces that make him look _fantastic_ , because – as he whispers to Harry while the producers are having a discussion with Caroline – he deserves payback for last week.

“You’re leading, this week,” Louis informs him. Harry’s jaw drops and he can quite literally _feel_ the panic forming in his eyes. “Hey, don’t worry, you’ll do great. At the beginning, it’s like I’m in control, flirting with you, and then once we get moving you’ll have taken off the glasses and found your assertive side and everyone will go mad for it, I promise.”

“What if I mess it up, though?”

“You won’t,” Louis says confidently. “It’s not a difficult dance, once you’ve got the basics, and the mood of it. You’ll have to smile the entire time, it’ll be disgusting.”

“Heyyyy, I’ve got a lovely smile!” Harry protests, biting his lip to keep from beaming right there.

“Keep believing your mother when she tells you that, Curly.”

By that evening, Harry’s got a decent rhythm going, can get them around the floor without tripping or missing a turn. The dance is basically just bouncing about for a couple of minutes, so it does leave both of them panting and exhausted by the end of the day.

“Just wait ‘til you have to do the Charleston,” Louis grins, nicking Harry’s water bottle and taking a swig. “It’s a killer.”

He gets up and starts putting his stuff back in the bag, when Harry remembers something. “Hey!” he calls. “I won the bet, didn’t I? Because Treyc got kicked off. And you didn’t even _mention_ it. Cheater.”

“We never negotiated what we were betting on,” Louis says. Harry snorts at him.

“You’re such a bad loser. Right, you’re buying me dinner. After I go home and have a shower, that is. Show me how you’re going to ‘woo’ me on Saturday.”

Louis actually looks sort of dumbfounded. “I – I don’t have your address.”

“C’mere,” Harry says, grabbing the marker pen Louis uses every day to write ‘R’ and ‘L’ on Harry right and left hands. Sometimes he switches them up, just to cackle when Harry gets it wrong. Louis steps closer, and Harry scribbles down both his phone number and his address on Louis’ arm, adding a little smiley face at the end. “There you go. Pick me up at eight.” And then he’s leaving, with nothing but a cheeky wink thrown over his shoulder at Louis.

***

“This isn’t a date.”

Not the greatest start to their first date, but Harry can work with it.

“Oh? What is it, then?”

“I don’t date the dancers I work with,” Louis continues, as if Harry hadn’t even spoken.

“Don’t you normally work with female dancers?” Harry asks.

Louis glares at him, but he’s also hooking their feet together under the table, so Harry’s going to look at the mixed messages in the most optimistic light possible. “I dated a female dancer once. It didn’t end very well.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“Partly that,” Louis nods. “But I think it was because it started mostly because it was good publicity for the dance, y’know? More people wanted to come and see the show if its two leads were in the middle of this whole star-crossed romance, so we went out a lot and got papped kissing – and no one really cared except a few of the ballroom dancing magazines – ” Harry didn’t know those were even a thing. “ – but it got us some publicity we wouldn’t have had before. And I just…I ended up resenting her, because she got tied into my public image, and this was around the time I was having my gay freak-out, so I couldn’t even explore any options, and it was awful.”

“So this isn’t a date,” Harry says.

“We’ve got to be able to work with each other maybe until Christmas, Harry. I don’t want to mess that up.”

“Okay. But you’re still paying,” Harry says, grinning.

Louis huffs. “I’ll get it right next week, just you wait. This was a complete fluke. And you can’t keep choosing people who get the lowest score from the judges, that’s not fair.”

“I didn’t choose her because she was at the bottom of the leader board, I chose her because I knew the public wouldn’t vote for her,” Harry says. “I’ll totally beat you next week and every week after, and I’m looking forward to a whole lot of not-dates where I don’t have to pay.” He smiles smugly, and Louis kicks him under the table swiftly before hooking their feet together again.

When the waiter gets over, Louis recites his order without even looking at the menu, while Harry realises that he hasn’t decided. He blushes and reaches for the menu, but Louis covers his hand before he can.

“He’ll have what I’m having,” Louis instructs the waiter, who raises his eyebrows and nods. Harry remembers a time when he used to be able to think in full sentences.

Once the waiter’s gone, Louis looks a bit worried. “Was that okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just – I know this place and the sautéed – ”

“It’s fine,” Harry interrupts quickly. It’s so fine that he feels like his skin is crawling with flames, but he doesn’t think it’s necessary to mention that. There’s not really a way to communicate ‘I want you to tell me what to do forever’ either, so Harry just focuses on the pressure of Louis foot against his. “You know better than me.”

Louis’ face spreads into a smile, and he reaches over to fiddle with one of Harry’s rings before tracing his fingers over the tattoo on Harry’s wrist. “ _I can’t change_ ,” he reads out. “When did you get that?”

“Oh, back when I was still closeted. It was – um, I think I was seventeen? And I’d just had to date this woman who was twice my age to make a tabloid story, and for months and months afterwards these interviewers and paps would just scream at me about my sex life as if it was theirs to speculate about. So I just got the tattoo to remind myself that no matter what they said, I would always be me.”

Louis sweeps his fingers across the ink once more before he drops his hand back into his lap. “I considered getting tattooed myself a couple of times.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“There was never anything that felt permanent enough to me that I could get it tattooed on me,” he shrugs. “Anyway, I haven’t met many dancers who’ve gotten inked. I think it’s sort of an unspoken rule that we’re supposed to look like Ken dolls.”

“I think you’d look amazing with tattoos,” Harry says honestly. “I mean, you do without, but…”

“I know what you meant, Harold,” Louis smiles. “Who knows, maybe I will get a few. Just as soon as there’s something I feel that seriously about.”

“What about dancing?” Harry asks. “Surely that’s something you love.”

“It is,” Louis agrees. “But in a way – I’ve never had a chance to want anything else, y’know? My parents had me learning to Salsa as soon as I could walk, and, like, I would always see other kids skateboarding, or playing footie, and I wanted to be them – but I was always the weird French kid who could never play out because he was busy being the queer who knew how to dance.”

“That’s awful,” Harry says.

“It’s not so bad. I missed out on some stuff, yeah, but I do love dance. Whether it’s a learned love or whatever, I really love the way you get to communicate this raw _emotion_ through how you move, connecting with the music and with your partner. There’s nothing like that.”

The server ambles back over with their food, and a bottle of the house wine, smiling at them.

“Oh, we didn’t order the – ” Louis begins, gesturing towards the wine.

“It’s free of charge, for the beautiful couple,” the man smiles, and Harry dips his head to blush and smile. _Not a date_ , his arse.

“Thanks,” he says, when it seems like Louis isn’t going to speak any time soon. The waiter nods and shuffles away, leaving Harry to smirk triumphantly at his _date_. “So, Lou, what were you saying about the total lack of romance on this particular outing?”

“Oh, just shut up and enjoy your free wine,” Louis snaps.

“I think I will. I think I’ll just enjoy how utterly _romantic_ and _sensual_ it is,” Harry says, caressing the bottle before he pours some for each of them.

“You’re a menace.”

“That is _no way_ to speak to your _date_ , Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis lets his head fall into his hands and groans. “I should never have told you we have chemistry. It’s made you all…confident.”

Harry grins widely. “You love it.” He digs into the plate of food in front of him, and totally unintentionally moans when the taste first hits his mouth. Louis looks murderous. “Oh my god, that’s _amazing_ ,” Harry says, unfazed. “I want you to make all of my food decisions for me from now on.” He reckons that’s casual enough that it doesn’t sound like ‘ _tell me what to do always_ ’.

Louis’ eyes light up a bit, and he steals a bite off Harry’s plate even though they have _the exact same thing_. Harry has never been on more of a date.

“I have good taste,” Louis says, around a bite of what could really be anything, but tastes vaguely like seafood to Harry. He’s not really paying attention to anything except the way Louis’ lips look, and the way his fingers curl around the fork. “Does this mean you’ll trust me about the fifth step?”

 _The fifth step._ The way Louis says it makes it sound so innocent, but it’s the biggest point of contention between them this week. As Louis wants it, Harry will be sitting on the bench, and Louis will sit on his lap to do a spin kick. ‘ _And I’ll barely even be sitting on you_ ,’ Louis keeps saying. ‘ _I’ll be supporting most of my weight on my hands_.’ Like that makes it any better. Harry needs to explain to Louis the power he possesses in his arse, because Louis obviously doesn’t understand that it could quite literally start wars, or maybe create world peace.

“No,” Harry says firmly. “We are not doing the fifth step.”

***

They, of course, end up doing the fifth step. It’s really not fair, because Louis employed the fluttering of eyelashes that shouldn’t be legal, and also teased Harry about getting too flustered while touching his crotch inappropriately, which just reminded Harry of what had happened in the bathroom on Saturday, and in conclusion he thinks he has the right to file a lawsuit.

Harry comes up with a plan.

It is obviously not an option to just get hard in front of all the middle-aged women who watch _Strictly_ , and it’s obviously not a good idea to spend an entire performance terrified about getting hard, so Harry digs down to the bottom of his underwear drawer to find something he hasn’t worn in a very long time. They’re made of sheer, pale satin, and they cling tight enough that Harry can quite easily tuck his dick out of the way. In a strange way, they relax him, too – which is a strange thing to say about ladies’ underwear, but they do. He remembers wearing them a lot (not just this pair, he’s got quite a collection built up) on his various tours, because of the way they made it feel like time wasn’t moving so fast, like he was more comfortable in his own skin. He thinks part of it is how the audience can’t see them, how they’ll never know. It makes him feel safe, and it especially did at the very height of his career, when it felt like his every movement was being analysed. They were something just for him, and they are now, too. He thinks it’s sort of a foolproof plan.

The rest of his and Louis’ dinner had gone well, too, although Louis doesn’t mention it for the rest of the week. The food had been wonderful, and Harry had let Louis order his dessert for him, which had made him feel tingly all over again, and they’d chatted about everything from favourite football teams to TV shows to song-writing. (As it turns out, Louis’ written a few songs and, no, he will not show them to Harry.) At the end of the night, they hadn’t fucked, and Harry had been perfectly okay with that. So okay that he’d come later that night with three fingers inside himself and Louis’ name on his lips.

Now they’re back to just rehearsing like mad people (seriously, no one stays in the studio for as long as them. Harry’s had lengthy conversations with Zayn about it. So far, Zayn has been remarkably unsympathetic, although that might just be the way his face rarely seems to convey any really strong emotion.) and Harry’s quickly getting used to the permanent sense of exhaustion. He’s even started drinking coffee, even though he hates it. Sometimes he wishes Louis would appreciate his dedication.

On Thursday, they go out for a coffee at the nearest Costa (“I can’t believe you’re making me drink this overpriced _swill_ ,” Louis says) and they’re followed by about ten paps. The number only increases the longer they stay.

“Shit,” Harry says. “It hasn’t been like this is years.”

“Well, Curly, you might want to pick up a newspaper once in a while. You’re hot news, you’re the darling of _Strictly Come Dancing_. You could go out next week and do the Macarena, and you’d probably still win.”

“Is that why you’ve got me practising my arse off until nine every night?”

“Yeah, well, some of the other contestants have got _jobs_. I’m just keeping you busy.” It’s true. Zayn often leaves for hours to do photo-shoots; Liam goes off for competitions, and Niall’s still doing stand-up every night of the week, and appearing on chat shows. Harry hasn’t done anything except dance and watch _Fresh Meat_ on Netflix since he got started on _Strictly_.

“I’m just having a bit of trouble writing the next album, that’s all,” Harry says defensively.

“Oh, really? When’s the last time you picked up your guitar?” Louis asks. He’s caught him there. Harry thinks his guitar might have been guiltily shoved under his bed after he’d gotten drunk at three am after the first live show and had possibly tried to write a song dedicated to Louis’ eyes. He can’t quite remember.

“Fine. But this dancing thing doesn’t come easy to me,” Harry says, “I need all the help I can get.”

“Oh, I’ll toast to that,” Louis grins, totally unironically raising his mug of tea to clink against Harry’s. “You’re getting better, darling, I’ll give you that.”

Harry tries not to blush at the pet name. “Well, how’s it feel to be in the limelight for once?”

“Oh, you little _shit_ ,” Louis shrieks, and they’re sitting next to each other on a sofa so it’s all to easy for him to lunge to his right and tickle Harry until he’s squealing, too. The girl behind the till looks slightly murderous, but that’s been her expression since they walked in so Harry thinks it might be all right.

***

“Is there something we should talk about?” Grimshaw asks, slapping down a newspaper ( _The Sun_ ) as soon as Harry sits down at their monthly meeting on Friday. There’s a lovely picture on the front of him and Louis, and their tickle-fight in Costa. It’s very cute. Harry thinks he might set it as his background. “I just need to know, in case I need to spin something.” It’s only then Harry focuses on the headline: _Has Tomlinson Waltzed into Harry Styles’ Heart?_

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Harry assures his manager. “We’re not going to sleep together.”

“You’re on the front page of _The Sun_ , Harry,” Nick nearly yells. “Do you know how huge that is?”

“It wasn’t huge when I was eighteen,” Harry says.

“But it is now. I know, I know, the world sucks, celebrity is fickle. But, you and Tomlinson, you’re a front page story!”

“Are you saying you _want_ me to sleep with him?”

“Not unless you want to,” Nick says. “But the tabloids are eating this shit up, it’s incredible. There’s an analysis in _Hello!_ about how long you stare at him when he’s giving a – completely and totally dull – interview answer. They’re doing polls in _Marie Claire_ about how long it’ll take you to come out as a couple. Not ‘ _if_ ’ – ‘ _how long_ ’!”

“But we’re not – ”

“Styles, I’ve known you for seven years and if you say you would not drop to your knees for that man in an instant you are lying to yourself.”

“No, I _know_ ,” Harry says. “I know I’m stupidly in – that I’d do that. He doesn’t want to fuck up our working relationship, that’s all.”

“Well, he’d been playing it up just as much as you have. Even more, maybe. On _It Takes Two_ , yesterday?” The segment had actually been filmed on Monday, a short of Louis and Harry getting dressed backstage. There had been a lot of butt-touching, and Louis had playfully hit him in the balls at one point. Harry can see how that might have seemed pretty gay.

“I know, but he’s just teasing.”

“Whatever he’s doing, it’s working,” Nick tells him seriously. “You’re the favourites to win _Strictly_ this year.”

***

Louis bangs on the door of the toilet just as Harry’s slipping the pants up over his legs. “Curly,” he yells. “We’re on in five!”

“I know,” Harry calls back, hastily tucking his dick out of the way and pulling up his trousers. When he opens the door, Louis’ still there, smiling almost kindly at him.

“Are you nervous again?” he asks, touching a stray curl underneath Harry’s ear, trying to flatten it into the gel. “I’d say I’d hold your hair back while you puke, but it’s solid as a rock, love. And you’ve got nothing to be worried about, anyway.”

“I know,” Harry says. “We’re going to do great.”

“That’s the spirit.” Louis squeezes his hand and turns to leave, throwing a casual, “See you out there!” over his shoulder.

Harry takes a deep breath and wets his face with the cold water from the sink, trying to get rid of the red blush that’s covering his cheeks. He’s done this before, but that doesn’t mean that after so long it doesn’t send an embarrassed thrill through him at the risk of getting found out. The possibility that everyone might see.

***

The dance goes well. It’s not as good as their first Waltz, but it’s better than the Cha Cha and the audience laughs appreciatively as they do the age old skit of Louis coming to sit next to Harry on the prop bench, Harry hopping up to put some space between them – Louis following. Their attitude is almost infectious, and as they get into the flow of the dance, Harry can’t stop smiling. He’s out of breath by the end, since they’ve been hopping all over the floor and staying light on his feet is never something that’s come easily to Harry.

“That was good,” Louis whispers, and Harry thinks it’s insane how he’s got a panel of judges in front of him, but the only opinion that matters to him is Louis’.

Their scores are a seven from Craig and three nines from the rest. Technically, the dance wasn’t too great, and that’s what Craig’s honed in on, but Harry knows that the atmosphere was infectious, and _that’s_ what got everybody going. He’s practically buzzing. Louis squeezes Harry’s hand as they’re asked about their thoughts on the scores and Harry wonders if they’ll trend on Twitter again tonight. It’s happened a few times, apparently, and there are Tumblrs dedicated to analysing the way in which Louis and Harry hold hands like they’re together on a sinking ship. It’s nice, that even though they aren’t the epic romance Harry wants, there are people out there who think that they are, that they could be.

At the end of the night, they’re second on the leader board, bettered on by bloody Zayn Malik. Harry needs to ask him how he does it.

“We’re probably safe,” Louis tells him, as they wait for the host to wrap it up. “So, who’s on the chopping board, d’you reckon?” There’s a challenge in his eyes that Harry loves, even more than he loves how Louis is stretched out so they his leg is rested on Harry’s knee even though it doesn’t have to be – there’s plenty of space.

“Maybe Rebecca, I don’t know?”

“Rebecca C. or Rebecca F.?” Louis asks. “Although it doesn’t matter, I’ll win either way. It’s going to be Paije. He’s the joke act, and not even the good one, not with Katie still here.”

“Well, I think it’ll be Rebecca C.,” Harry says. “She didn’t do very well this week.”

“Young Hazza, I don’t believe you understand how reality television works,” Louis teases. “You’re going _down_.”

“Just be prepared to eat your words, like last week.”

“That was a total fluke,” Louis dismisses.

***

They film Sunday’s show right after the one on Saturday, which is apparently a thing that viewers fall for every week, and Harry has to remember to keep saying ‘ _yesterday_ ’ as opposed to ‘ _half an hour ago_ ’. They get in their positions for the tense music to start up, and to learn whether they’ve gotten enough votes from the public that they’ll be through to next week’s show. Harry’s hand is in Louis’ as the Blonde and Bubbly presenter puts on her gravest face and reads out names from a piece of gold-backed card.

They’re called out fourth, and Louis jumps up into Harry’s arms; Harry doesn’t know whether it’s just for show or not and he doesn’t care, he just spins Louis round and thinks about how it’s like Louis was meant to fit here, where Harry can hold him.

He tries not to think about it with romantic metaphors but there’s a song in his head like there hasn’t been in too long, and he already wants to call up Ed, lay down some chords and shape a song that isn’t for Louis, he swears it, it’s just a song about a blue-eyed boy who’s changed everything Harry thinks.

The bottom two is Matt and Paije, so Louis knows he’s won even before anyone goes home, and he’s insufferable with it, grinning more than anyone should be while watching this, because they’re all meant to have on their serious faces. He taps out the rhythms of their ‘dances for survival’ into Harry’s thigh and keeps shooting smug glances at him when the cameras are turned away. Harry’s not really a competitive person, and he’s never met anyone as determined to win as Louis is, so it’s without much venom that he concedes, “Fine, I’ll take you out to the most expensive restaurant within a couple blocks of here.”

“I’m pretty sure the most expensive restaurant close by is a McDonald’s,” Louis replies.

“Really? I thought it was a Burger King. Oh, well. I’m sure you’ll love the burgers.”

“You little shit,” Louis giggles quietly. “I want to be wined and dined proper, young Harold. You’ll put on a suit and everything.”

“What’s the point if you won’t even put out?” Harry jokes.

“My dazzling company, of course.”

The bicker amicably until Paije is sent home and they’re all told that they’re allowed to leave. It’s nearing midnight, but Harry’s eager to start work on the song that hasn’t left his head, and it’s with only a quick, “See you tomorrow!” that he leaves Louis in the dressing room, having left on most of his outfit.

***

“The Rumba!” Louis announces, first thing Monday morning. Harry had called in yesterday to say that he was in the studio, and Louis had exclaimed that he felt betrayed, frankly, and they’d stayed on the phone for much longer than it would have taken for Harry to simply say that he wasn’t coming in that day. The song itself is looking good, as Harry’s been combining his lyrics with some of the stuff they were working on earlier, making it sound less like a childish pop song and more like the genre Harry’s trying to carve out a name for himself in. “You’re going to have to pay attention for this one, Hazza.”

“I always pay attention,” Harry says.

“Alright, so, the Rumba is a very sensual dance. You know how, in the Waltz, there was a lot of rising and falling action? Yeah, you have to forget you ever learned how to do that. You’ve got stay upright unless I dip you, which I will, and you’ve got to keep your steps small. It should be quite easy for you, simply because of the speed. Plus, I’ll lead it this week, so you can rely on me a little bit.”

Harry tries to pin all of the information down in his mind, already contemplating what the steps are going to be and how he’s going to handle the more difficult moves.

The song Louis picks is _Stay With Me_ , Sam Smith, and Harry tries not to read too much into it, he really does. But when they’re holding each other, locked together like two pieces on the puzzle, and the music that wraps around them is singing “ _Oh, won’t you stay with me?_ ” it’s impossible for him not to stare at Louis with naked, pure love in his eyes. He’s always been someone who falls too fast, who falls headfirst and doesn’t think twice before committing to someone who might not love him back, and he’s been there enough times already that he’s willing to accept the hold Louis has on him.

He thinks it’s never quite been like this, though.

It’s never been like he’s underwater and Louis is the only thing that’s helping him to breathe. It’s never made his palms tingle from how much he wants to touch Louis. Louis is different. Everything about this is _different_.

Once they’ve run through the initial steps about twenty thousand times, Harry asks, “Am I taking you out tonight, then?”

Louis considers. “Why not? I’ll text you my address and you can pick me up at eight.”

God, Louis’ demanding even when he’s not the one taking Harry on the date. Harry probably shouldn’t find it as hot as he does. They only do a couple more run-throughs, Louis discussing whether or not Harry should attempt a lift during the last quarter (Harry is arguing very much in his own favour, and not just because of how it’ll make Louis see how totally strong and manly Harry is) and then they part awkwardly, knowing that they’ll be seeing each other again in only a couple of hours.

When Harry gets home, he spends almost the entirety of that time choosing an outfit. He knows it’s ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop him from calling up Gemma once almost his entire wardrobe is spread out over his bed.

“Gemma,” he says as soon as she picks up, “how much tit is too much tit?”

“Who’s the lucky fella?” she asks.

“Gemma, this is serious. Will Louis think I’m desperate if I leave five buttons undone? Is five too much? I feel like four is a safer number. It looks nicer, too. Or maybe I should wear one of those proper shirts, like, with a bowtie. Maybe he’d like that better. I mean, he’s seen my boobs quite a lot by now. Maybe they’ve lost their seduction appeal.”

“When Mum told me I was getting a baby brother, I did not anticipate that I’d spend this much time talking about his boobs,” Gemma says.

“I need your help!” Harry exclaims. “I mean, what if I leave five buttons undone and Louis thinks that I’m, like, easy for him?”

“But you _are_ easy for him,” Gemma says. She is obviously missing the point.

“Yes, _I_ know I’m easy for him. _You_ know I’m easy for him. 50% of Britain known I’m easy for him. That doesn’t mean he has to!” Harry explains patiently. “So, how slutty should I go?”

“Oh, young Hazza, go so slutty that he’ll be forced to bend you over the table halfway through dessert,” Gemma says, in an outstanding display of sisterly support. “And then never talk to me about your sex life ever again.”

***

Harry pulls up beside Louis’ flat at 7:37, because he might have been slightly overzealous in preparing for the worst. He should’ve believed the Sat-Nav, but it’s failed him before, and being late will not get him laid. He's still not entirely sure that being early will get him laid, however, so he sits outside in his car for the remaining twenty-three minutes before it's socially acceptable to press the buzzer.

Louis lets him up for a couple of minutes before they leave, and Harry takes the opportunity to catalogue everything he can about Louis' personality from his home. He's watched all nine episodes of _Sherlock_ , and one and a half series' of _Elementary_ , and so he thinks he's entitled to a little deduction work of his own. It's more difficult than expected due to how Louis' flat is almost entirely bare. It's open plan, spacious, and the TV is big and there's a stereo system and a bookshelf which contains only what Harry assumes to be dance trophies, but the walls are completely bare, painted in that disgusting magnolia colour that no one in the human race actually _wants_ on their walls. It's mostly tidy, or as tidy as one would expect a twenty-something's flat to be if they lived on their own.

"Nice...trophies," Harry says, in the interest of making conversation.

"Thanks. They're from since I was about five, I think. Hopefully I'll get to put the glitterball next to them after this series, eh?" He's referring to the trophy given to the winner of _Strictly_ at the end of each series, but he doesn't sound particularly enthused about it. Harry' not surprised, since one of the plaques he reads says something about being a European champion. Compared to being the best in an entire continent, a silly little reality TV show must not mean much. "So, are you ready to go?" Louis asks, as though they're not standing in his apartment.

"Yeah, yeah, I am. Thanks for the tea," Harry says, following Louis out of the door.

He has Plans for tonight, so he has to rush them a little to get them to his 8:15 booking at a tiny Italian place just a couple of streets away from the studio. It's been a lifesaver for as long as Harry has been famous, as back when he used to take people on dates it was the perfect place to go for some privacy. High-end without being flashy, the food was lovely and he'd never had to worry about anyone whipping out a camera-phone. Even after he'd stopped dating, a couple of years back now, he'd continued to come to the place with friends, or just by himself. He tells Louis all this, and of course the first question is, "What do you mean, 'stopped dating'?"

"Oh, well, back when I first got famous I got a lot of numbers, y'know, so I'd take people up on it - men, mostly. And then, just one time, my management team ended up getting extorted out of quite a bit of money by this one guy who was threatening to out me, and that - that kind of put me off. For a while," Harry admits. He doesn't think about it often: it was pretty much the worst experience of his life, and he's never wanted to relive it. The guy had seemed so nice, and he'd been attractive, so Harry had hooked up with him at the end of the night, and by the next week there were some compromising pictures in Nick's inbox and a demand for a considerable amount of money. So, Harry doesn't think about it often.

"That's...disgusting, really," Louis says. "God. What a wanker."

Harry laughs a little. "It's all in the past now, I'm fine. But it just wasn't the kind of experience I wanted to repeat."

"But you've been out for ages now, everyone knows you're gay. Why not give it another go? Get back on the dating scene."

Harry considers giving Louis a Meaningful Look, possibly accompanied by some waggling of his eyebrows, but he knows that's not what Louis' asking. "I just - there's always gonna be something, y'know?" he replies truthfully. "If not that I'm gay, then it'll be something I let slip about myself, or my family. Or what I'm like in bed, you know how it is. Not that I've been famous enough that any of that would be news for a while now."

"Oh, Hazza, I'm sure the people of Britain are _dying_ to know what your preferences are in the bedroom." Louis winks. Harry feels faint. "Shall we go in, then?"

"Of course." Harry leads the way.

Once they're inside and seated, with a bottle of the house wine on the table, Louis continues his line of questioning. Harry's discovering his partner has a very one-track mind when it comes to Harry's sex life. He's not sure whether this is a bad or a good thing.

"So, what about, like, meaningless hook-ups?"

"What?"

"Sex, Harry, keep up," Louis says. "You can't honestly tell me that you haven't had any since you were - what - seventeen? When did that arsehole blackmail you, anyway?"

"I was eighteen," Harry says.

"Right, so you're saying you haven't had a date since then. What about sex? Surely you've hooked up with _someone_."

"Um. Like, friends, here and there? People I could trust, mostly."

Louis nods to himself, scanning over the menu. Harry reminds himself to do the same, instead of just analysing their previous conversation, or maybe studying the way Louis' eyelashes cast literal shadows on his cheekbones. It must be something to do with the candlelight elongating everything. It's very distracting.

"What would you recommend?" Louis asks casually after a while.

"I don't know," Harry says. "What do you like? They do a mean calzone, but it depends on whether you like that sort of thing. And there's this pasta with a plum and something sauce, that's nice."

"What are you getting?"

"Oh, um, probably just, like, Bolognese or something. I'm not really hungry."

"Even after all that dancing today? Wow, Harold, I thought I'd tired you out. I must remind myself to go harder next time." Louis looks positively filthy when he says it, eyeing Harry up and down like dancing is a euphemism for something. Maybe it is. Harry would really like to get laid tonight.

He has to glance away at the menu to collect himself before replying. "Well, if that's what you want..."

He lets the proposition hang, like a challenge, in the air for a moment before he hears Louis cough awkwardly and looks up again. There's a bit of pink high in Louis' cheeks, contrasting beautifully with the gold of his skin. "I thought we were keeping this professional, Harold," he says eventually. His voice sounds a little deeper than it was before, though. Harry knows how to count his victories.

"You were the one who said that."

Louis arches an eyebrow. "Okay, then. Cheeky." He leaves it at that, but Harry doesn't mind. He knows they're probably not going to sleep together tonight, but he managed to make Louis flustered. That's, like, the first stage of seduction. Or something.

"Okay, so theoretically," Harry says, "if this thing goes well, and we're still friends after we get eliminated or whatever - and we are friends, right? - can something happen then? If you've got this rule about not sleeping with the people you work with. After this series is over, we won't be working together, so."

"That, Hazza," Louis grins, "was the least elegant proposition I have ever heard."

"You're not answering my question."

"I don't know, love. Sometimes I just don't want to complicate things. You can understand that, can't you? We are friends, and I like it that way. I don't want to make everything awkward, just because we have this one night stand and it changes everything."

Harry wasn't proposing a one-night stand. He was proposing going on dates, then moving in together and maybe adopting a cat or two, and then eventually getting married on a boat with only their close family and having their first dance while Ed plays the guitar softly in the background. Harry will admit to having thought about this a lot.

"But, like, you're attracted to me, right?" he ascertains. He accompanies it by licking his lips, too, and leaning forward. He's got this seduction thing _down_.

"Of course I am. I thought I'd made that pretty clear."

"So, why don't we just see where it goes? Like, maybe after the show I can take you out somewhere and call it a date? Or something."

"That...that would be really nice, actually," Louis smiles, the smile where his eyes crinkle and seem to glow with the cosmic energy of his happiness. Harry likes being the reason for that smile. "I just might take you up on that."

***

The Rumba might just be Harry's favourite dance yet. It's quite understated, suitably slow, and he gets Louis caressing his cheek and dipping him and all those lovely things. During practices, he can barely keep the hearts out of his eyes. It's pathetic. Even the cameraman, Ben, tells him it's pathetic.

"I have to edit this shit, too, y'know, and I have to cut out all the bits of you mooning over him," he tells Harry irritably. "It's the hardest part of my bloody job."

"Oh," Harry says. "Sorry."

He does well for the most part, though, he thinks. He treats Louis mostly like he would a mate from back home - never lets his touches linger unless they're going through the dance, never stares at Louis for too long unless he literally can't help it (there have been times when people have had to actually call his name to bring him out of a Louis-induced daze). He thinks he's found a nice balance, contented by the fact that when this is all over, he'll get to take Louis on a date. And that date will eventually lead to marriage, because they're soulmates. Harry is pretty much sure of that by now.

He's sure of it because they've started finishing each other's sentences. And because when Harry looks over the interviews before they're approved to be shown on Saturday, Louis talks about Harry even when he's not supposed to. When they ask Louis about how long he's been dancing, he'll somehow manage to go of on a tangent about some story Harry told him the other day. Harry does it in his interviews, too. And the way they move together during rehearsals is almost effortless, nowadays. They go to lunch together every day, and they find something to talk about no matter what, even though they spend most of their time rehearsing together. Louis sometimes talks about pranks he'd love to pull but never has. They're planned down to every last detail, and the way Louis tells them is so riveting that Harry feels as though he's telling something that's actually happened, rather than something he wishes he could do.

"Why can't you?" Harry asks, during one of their lunches at Starbucks. Louis had denounced it that morning as a Capitalist hellhole, but Harry had pointed out that they were both contestants on a reality TV show and Louis had given in.

"What? Do the pranks? Jesus, I'd get fired b'fore I had the chance to tell them it was a bloody joke," Louis says. "There're about a hundred people dying to have my place on the show, they'd replace me in no time."

"I guess I didn't think about it like that," Harry says. "Like, for me this is just this thing I have to do for publicity, but it's your career. Sorry."

"Don't be. Sometimes I ask myself the same thing - like, how did I end up here? I was meant to be a dancer proper, staying true to myself and the music 'nd all that. And I ended up just being another face on Saturday night telly. So why can't I have a little fun every once in a while? But I think it ends up just being that...did I ever tell you how the whole reality TV thing happened?"

"No."

"Figures. I don't tell many people about it. Too embarrassing. The thing is, I was dancing for the National Ballet before this. Now, I'm not trained in ballet, not really, but I managed to get in on a favour from some old colleagues, and I knew I'd really have to work at it to get it. I was only one of the back-up dancers, but I knew it was important. But...I guess you kind of know what's coming. You get complacent. You think you're good enough that people will love you no matter what you do. Then they don't. Anyway...Leigh-Anne was there with me, and we got on well, and she got kicked out around the same time as me. It was shitty for her, because she was actually amazing at what she did, but there's some pretty hardcore racism still going on in the ballet so they blamed it on budget cuts and chucked her. She wasn't too cut up about it, because she had this job lined up for her. She's honestly that good - I'm not surprised that she had a bunch of different places after her. And so she was the one who got me in here. I've learned not to just think that I can be handed stuff any more, y'know? I've learnt that I do actually have to give it my all. I can't fuck that up."

It rings true with Harry, the feeling of thinking that everything will come back, even as it's slipping away. He'd felt that way about the album sales, as they dropped and dropped and dropped. He'd felt that way about the fans, as they drifted away, moved on to other pretty faces. He wants to say that he wasn't absorbed by it, by the shallow culture of celebrity, but the truth is that he lapped it all up. He thought he belonged there.

"Shit," he says, because nothing else quite sums it all up.

Louis smiles at him, warm and understanding. "I know. It's shit, innit? But that's life." He doesn't say it in the patronising way most people say it, like Harry's publicist and his mum say it. He says it in a way that's equally self-deprecating as it is reassuring, and Harry loves him for it.

"It is what it is," Harry mumbles, picking at a nail.

"I like that," Louis says. "Sounds all wise, when really it's just stating the obvious. You should be a poet, Styles."

Harry has composed many a rhyming couplet devoted to the way Louis smiles when it's just them, but he doesn't think it's relevant just about now. Eventually, he settles on saying, "I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or not."

"Of course it's a compliment, Hazza," Louis gasps, mock affronted. "Have I ever insulted you?"

Louis had insulted Harry less than ten minutes ago. He'd called his coffee a 'sugary waste of a drink', and told him he was soft because he took it with milk, and then sprinkled on some of the chocolate and cinnamon stuff at the counter. He'd literally called Harry a pathetic human being that morning. Harry tries to inject all of this into a look of complete and utter disdain, but Louis waves it off with a flutter of his hand.

"You've got to be less easily offended, _god_. Being sensitive will get you nowhere in life, Harold." Harry is beginning to suspect that Louis either doesn't know his real name or is just choosing not to use it. He personally thinks that 'Harold' makes him sound like an old man, rather than the sex god he obviously is.

They finish their drinks and head back to the studio with smiles on their faces and their fingers linked between them. Neither of them mentions it.

***

That Saturday, Zayn and Perrie do a Quickstep to a song from _Grease_ as the last dance of the night, and Harry learns that it’s Louis’ favourite movie, and that he wanted to audition for a school production of it, only that had been the year of the ballroom nationals, and he’d been more busy practising than ever. Harry thinks he’d make a good Sandy, all things considered. They could sing _You’re The One That I Want_ and Harry could wear leather trousers. It’d be perfect.

Their dance went well enough to score them four eights, which has them behind Zayn and Liam, and joint with Niall. They’re definitely the front-runners, the four of them. Niall and his partner, Jade, had done a Cha Cha to _Call Me Maybe_ , which pretty much sums them up. They’re the fun couple, the ones that make people laugh and pick up the phone to vote. Liam’s a bit more of a serious contender, and with his puppy dog eyes he’s hard to resist, and of course Zayn’s just perfect. At everything. It would be annoying if he wasn’t so…well, _Zayn_ about it.

The Rumba had been Harry’s favourite so far, definitely. It was such a passionate dance, more feeling than technicality, and Craig had told him that he’d really “come out of his shell” for it. It’s nice.

When they’re interviewed, Louis says that Harry’s progressed beautifully as a performer, compares him to a butterfly, and squeezes his arse. It’s good.

***

Things are not good.

So it started on Tuesday, and it was Louis’ fault, really. Because, yes, the Tango is a passionate dance, but are the intense eyes really necessary? Is all the chest touching totally necessary? Is any of this okay with Harry? The answer, of course, is no – and therefore, the answer, as always, is panties. They’re little black girly briefs with red bows. They’re so cute Harry almost wants to cry. He actually goes out to buy them on Tuesday night, and he feels ridiculous but he does try disguising himself when he walks into Ann Summers: scarf around his neck and some of his face, baseball cap with all his curls tucked inside. Normally he orders them online, or back when he was closeted there was always the excuse that they were for a girlfriend, but today he just wants to walk through rows of lacy undergarments and run his hands over all of them and see which ones make him think of Louis.

It started on Tuesday but it comes to a head on Thursday, when Harry goes into the designated changing room to get changed, after Louis’ gone home already, mind you, and strips off as quickly as possible. He’s done this before, of course, dozens of times, the quick change, and he almost likes the thrill of it, that he might get caught.

That is, naturally, until he _actually gets caught_.

Louis’ jaw drops when he sees him, and whatever he was saying about having left a water bottle dies a horrible death in his throat. Harry’s got his t-shirt halfway over his head, and he freezes when he hears the voice. So now he’s just the git who’s standing in a changing room with a shirt half-on, wearing women’s underwear, with his platonic dance partner staring at him. Or, more accurately, staring at his crotch. Nothing is okay.

After a few more moments of this absurd checkmate, Louis’ across the room and on him, pressing him up against the wall. It’s very uncomfortable; there’s a peg pressing up against Harry’s back and it’s actually rather cold, but he doesn’t care, not when Louis’ small hands are on his hips, stroking the black silk on them. Shit. Harry feels faint.

“You _cheated_ ,” Louis breathes, so close that his breath tickles Harry’s face.

It takes a moment for Harry to realise what he’s talking about – what the point of the fucking knickers _are_ , even, and he manages to croak, “Can’t keep letting you get me hard on national television,” like he’s not having an internal crisis. _Do something_ , a loud voice in his head is begging. Louis’ fingers tighten for a moment before he’s moving away, leaving Harry to slump against the wall, and dashing out of the room as though nothing happens.

Harry looks down, feeling how his cock is thickening under the constraints of the material, and makes the executive decision to take a shower.

***

Louis doesn’t mention it. Harry doesn’t mention it. In fact, neither of them mention anything much, because they’re barely speaking. Louis speaks only to bark out commands, Harry is only capable of mumbling apologies whenever he gets a step wrong. The camera people actually get bored of them after a while, something that hasn’t happened since the first couple of weeks. Harry feels a bit like he can’t breathe.

It doesn’t help that Louis keeps shooting these furtive glances at his crotch, as though he’d still be wearing them after being humiliated. Their weekly date was meant to be today, and Harry has the strangest feeling that it’s not going to happen. They both dance woodenly to the song, only touching where they absolutely have to, and by some mutual agreement they part ways earlier than usual, so that Harry can go vent his feelings by writing lyrics. Well, he kind of says to Louis that he was to do something for ‘work’.

***

The entire week feels like it rushes by and Harry feels close to tears by Saturday. Louis’ constant sniping about his mistakes has had nothing to soften it, is just barbs that catch at Harry’s skin until he feels like he’s shaking all over and he’s just going to burst into tears. He has had a few little cries into his pillow, but in his defence it was only after watching _The Amazing Spider-Man 2_. He thinks he can attribute the tears to something not-Louis.

They stand in silence while they watch Liam and Leigh-Anne do a Quickstep to Elton John, with a fun beat and a good amount of lifting on Liam’s part. It’s impressive, even if he is a professional boxer, and they should’ve expected him to have a show of strength. He’s followed by a Viennese Waltz courtesy of Esther, and then there’s a _terrible_ Charleston from Nicolò, and then a slightly better performance to a Jessie J song by Matt Cardle. Harry’s paying more attention than usual, and he’s sitting as far away as possible from Louis on a sofa that presses them together, sandwiched between other contestants.

He watches Niall and Jade Foxtrot to _Daydream Believer_ , and he sings along under his breath. It’s calming, or at least as calming as it can get while he’s sat too close and too tense to someone who’s most likely disgusted by him, as far as Harry can tell. Niall gets four eights – Harry and Louis’ score from last week. They’ve got no hope of matching them, Harry thinks. Halfway through the song, they’re ushered backstage and their make-up is touched up, ready for them to go out and murder this Avicii song.

“Just…” Louis begins, his first words of the night. “Try not to _think_ too much, okay?”

Harry just nods and bites down on his lip.

They go out, and they dance, and it should be terrible, but it’s not. Only in the sense that for a couple of minutes, Harry can forget everything that’s not them, right here, right now, with no awkwardness or barriers. He can pretend that Louis’ looking at him with such savage intensity because of how he can’t contain his passion, when in reality it’s probably forced out of him. Harry’s a bit slow – what else is new? – but he gets through it and there’s only a few times when he misses a step or turns in the wrong direction. Considering how little help he’s been getting from Louis, it’s a fucking miracle.

“You looked terrified, Harry,” Craig says. He’s not wrong. He could be nicer. “You’ve got to let yourself go a little bit more, get into the music. It wasn’t your best.”

The others all say the same thing. Even Bruno is subdued; he stays seated the entire time. There’s something clawing its way up Harry’s throat, but he doesn’t have time for anything except trying to breathe through his interview and express his regret and listen to the scores. A five, three sixes. Not as bad as it could’ve been. Not as good as it would’ve been, if not for Harry being an idiot.

He has to tear himself away as soon as Aiden Grimshaw goes up. He can hear the thumping of the KC and the Sunshine Band song as he rushes to the bathroom, and it’s both ironic and nauseating that that’s what he heard when he falls to his knees in a bathroom stall and doesn’t quite manage to even throw up. He just curls up there, breathing hard and feeling disgusting, eyes burning with tears that won’t come out.

The door bangs open and Harry rushes to lock the door of the stall he’s in.

“Harry?” Louis sounds panicked. “Is that…? ‘arry, I know you’re in there. Fucking…let me in, please? I just want to talk.”

Harry just makes a sniffling noise. Then, because Louis is apparently an idiot, he literally lies down and looks up at Harry from the gap between the floor and the door of the toilet stall. “Harry. Harry, love, can you tell me what’s wrong? No, stupid question, I’m sorry. You can just tell me what a dick I am, if that’d help. Please, can you just talk to me, sweetheart? Anything at all.”

He sounds so concerned, and so loving, and that’s what makes Harry crawl over to the door and unlock it. Louis dives on him almost immediately, wrapping him up in a warm hug, both of them cuddling up next to a toilet. Harry would point out how silly it is if he didn’t want Louis to keep doing this forever. He’s apologising over and over again into Harry’s hair, saying things like, “I was such an arse, I’m so sorry, you did so great.” Harry still feels like crap, but there’s a little bit of warmth somewhere. Louis doesn’t think he’s disgusting.

“Why did you do that?” he asks weakly, as Louis’ beginning to rock them back and forth slightly, just a tangle of limbs and snot and tears (Louis’ started crying, too, Harry thinks).

“I don’t know, Hazza, I was just embarrassed and I…yeah.”

“Why were _you_ embarrassed?” Harry asks. He feels like this is a fair question. As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing embarrassing about _finding_ someone in a compromising position; it’s fair to say that the compromised person has it worse.

“Because you keep making me lose control,” Louis says. He starts pressing kisses, feather-light, against the skin just behind Harry’s ear. Harry relaxes even more into his arms, back pressed into Louis’ chest, making a contended sound. “Because I never know how to feel around you. I’ve never – fuck, Harry, I’ve never met anyone who’s made me feel like this. I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.”

“I’m not very scary,” Harry says scratchily.

“You’re terrifying, little Hazza. The scariest monster of them all. Though I can’t say I’d object to finding you under my bed.”

Harry giggles.

“There we go.” Louis’ grin is audible in his voice. “So who d’you think is going to go this week? I still owe you a date for Rebecca.”

“You called it a date,” Harry smiles.

“I s’pose I did.”

***

They go out to watch the rest of the acts. They only missed a couple, and are back just in time for Zayn and Perrie to do the Paso Doble to _Live and Let Die_. Louis presses up close and hums the tune into Harry’s ear, grip tight around his fingers.

“You two’ve changed your tune, a bit,” Niall comments. He’s been sitting next to them for most of the night, and can’t have missed the awkwardness, so Harry just pats him on the knee.

“Just a bit of a misunderstanding,” Louis replies for him.

The last two acts (Cher and Katie) dance, and then they get their break to change and get ready for elimination show.

“What happens if we get kicked off?” Harry says nervously, as they’re sitting in the green room. They’re third from bottom of the leader board, with only Nicolò and Sophia below them. Harry had predicted that Nicolò would be the one to leave, but now he’s worried that it might be himself. And – strangely enough – he’s actually become emotionally invested in whether or not the public decides to let him stay.

“Hey, we’re still Britain’s sweethearts,” Louis reassures him. “And, anyway, you’re completely wrong. Geneva’s definitely going next. She was in the bottom two last week, even though she was near the top.”

“So what you’re basically saying is that the public are dicks.”

“Of course they are. And if they get you eliminated, I will personally take out an injunction against them.”

“You’re an idiot,” Harry says, hoping he doesn’t sound too fond.

He still feels a bit shaky and on edge, but definitely less panicked than before. He’s always appreciated a good cuddle, even when it’s on the floor of a possibly dirty bathroom and now, with Louis’ attention firmly on him, he feels a little more like he can begin to feel less pathetic. It’s been a hard week, and he’s all too eager for it to come to an end.

***

Matt Cardle is eliminated, to the shock of just about everyone. It sounds cliché, but it does hammer home the point that no one is really safe. Harry had liked Matt, too (and so, apparently, had Aiden, who clung to Matt for at least five minutes when the results were announced. Harry had made the mistake of suggesting that they could both just go for coffee tomorrow, but all he received in return were death glares.).

Geneva is also in the bottom two, and apparently was told by Katie – who overheard Louis in the green room – about the whole bet thing, and so now there’s a meeting with the producers and neither Geneva nor Esther, nor Sophia, will talk to them. They’re basically exiles. Except they’re having their after-show drink with Zayn, Perrie, Niall and Leigh-Anne, so maybe not.

“That’s sort of a shitty thing to do, though,” Zayn says.

“I don’t know,” Niall responds. “It’s not like winning this show gets us anything other than a trophy. So I don’t think getting eliminated is such a bad thing. If it was, like, _The X Factor_ or something where it’s actually about peoples’ futures, then it’d be, y’know. A shit thing to do.”

“I don’t know, it does seem kind of mean,” Perrie says thoughtfully. “Betting on someone’s misfortune. Making money out of it.”

“We don’t make any money, though,” Harry says. “We just, like, take each other out for meals.”

“What?”

Louis lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. “We take each other on dates depending on who gets it right. Or closest, I suppose. So I’ll be taking Harry out tomorrow.”

The other four look at them like they’ve grown second heads.

“So you _are_ dating, then?” Perrie asks eventually.

“Um,” Harry says, eloquently. “Not really. We’re just going out as friends. So they’re like, friend dates.”

The expressions of exasperation do not fade.

“Right,” Zayn says eventually. “Well, maybe tell that to the producers. S’long as you’re not actually gambling on it, I reckon you’ll get away with it. Otherwise you might get disqualified or something, and I’ll miss Harry’s knock knock jokes.”

“He’s joking, by the way,” Niall chips in. “We won’t miss them. We will miss _you_ , though. So try not to get kicked off.”

“Thanks, Ni,” Harry says. He’s picking at the skin of his nail nervously, thinking about the consequences of this harmless little game. It’s a bit intimidating; he hasn’t had to meet with the producers of the show at all since he got here.

***

“That went well,” Louis comments. It’s midnight, Harry is no longer getting paid, and Louis is on temporary probation, but at least Louis thinks it went well. Harry has yet to be convinced, if he’s honest. “Are we still on for tomorrow, then?”

“Sure. Lunch, maybe?”

“Shall we meet at Café Rouge, the one ‘round the corner from your house? They do good steak there, so it might be nice. Unless you wanted to go somewhere posh?”

“No, it’ll be nice. And about the whole probation thing…”

“Oh, it’s my fault. Here’s how it works: they give me a shit partner next year so I’ve got no chance of winning, and if I slip up again I’m off the show. It’s fine. Perrie’s been on probation loads of times, but they never actually fire her because she’s so good.”

“Why was she on probation?” Harry asks.

“Well, she has a history of, um, fraternising with contestants. Not necessarily the ones she’s dancing with, and – come to think of it – not necessarily the contestants, either. And that’d be fine if she didn’t keep doing it in the dressing rooms. I have walked into many a scene, Harold, that I did not want to see.”

Harry barks out a laugh, but he’s reminded of the panties incident, and so he wraps his arm around Louis’ waist to remind himself that he hasn’t scared him off.

“Who’d you catch her with, then?”

“Most recently, Jade. I think they might have a thing going on, and I’ve overheard some – ahem – _arrangements_ with Zayn and Niall. She’s absolutely lovely, Perrie, can charm the pants of everyone in this joint. There was that guy from _Doctor Who_ , and one of McFly. Not the married one, the one with the hair. We used to go out for lunch all the time and she’d tell me how they were in bed.”

Harry sniggers. “Really?”

“Absolutely. So anyway, she’s been out on probation a bunch of times for endangering the public image or whatever, and they’ve always let her stay on. A couple of years she had to dance with this _ancient_ guy, though, and they were eliminated first thing. It’s always a bit shit when that happens, because you get to do fuck all for the rest of the series.”

Harry feels a bit better at that, although he would’ve rather liked it if he was still getting paid. He’s in the studio next month, though, to lay down some solid foundations for what he’s pretty sure is going to be his best album yet.

***

Their dance for the week is the Jive, and practising it is the most fun Harry’s had yet. They’re doing a song from _Little Shop of Horrors_ , which Harry has never watched, and so Louis insists that instead of getting started on Monday, they go back to Harry’s flat and watch it. So they do, cuddled up together on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn in between them and Louis singing along with all of the songs.

After that’s finished, they come to the agreement that there’s no point in going back to work for the day, and instead watch a collection of increasingly terrible Hugh Grant movies.

“You see, I think _About a Boy_ was his finest moment,” Louis says through a mouthful of popcorn. “You can’t go wrong with Nick Hornby adaptations. Although you’ve always got to put a word in for _Love, Actually_.”

“And _Four Weddings_ ,” Harry supplies. “I think my favourite’s _Music and Lyrics_.”

“You’re kidding me. He’s, what, fifty in that? What is even the _point_ of Hugh Grant if he hasn’t got floppy hair and heartbreaker eyes?”

“I just like it,” Harry shrugs. “Drew Barrymore, a washed up musician learning to get his inspiration back, I connect with it. And, of course, the best original song written for a film _ever_.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Pop! goes my heaaaaaart!” Harry sings, deliberately off-key.

“No, Harry. No.”

***

They barely notice the sky darkening as they watch _Notting Hill_ , _Bridget Jones’s Diary_ and, finally, _10 Things I Hate About You_ , because no movie marathon would truly be complete without it (or so Louis insists).

“Did you want to stay for a bit?” Harry offers. “I was just gonna order Chinese and maybe start work on another song, you’re welcome to stay.”

Louis hesitates momentarily before nodding. “Alright, Harold. Show me what goes into the making of a Styles original song.”

Harry goes to his room to grab his guitar. He’s got a tune, but can’t think of any lyrics, so he simply hums it under his breath, strumming out the first couple of chord while he dials the Chinese place on the corner. He puts in the order and goes back to sit next to Louis, snuggles up until Louis’ forced to wrap his arms around Harry’s waist and shift until Harry’s in between his legs. They’re lying length ways on the sofa and Louis has snuck a hand into Harry’s hair, and everything feels warm. Harry hums out the tune as he tries to figure out the basic chord progression, and after a few minutes Louis joins in, humming along so his voice melds with Harry’s in places. This is why Harry loves writing songs with other people, because there’s always a moment when you realise how it’s going to sound, and Harry loves sharing that with another person.

“ _My heart, your heart_ ,” Harry tries, testing out the weight of the words. This is the bit he finds hardest: trying to fit words to a tune. When he and Ed write together, Ed acts as the lyricist most of the time. There’s a lot of music in Harry’s head, but not so many words.

“Sap,” Louis comments idly, tugging on one of Harry’s curls.

“ _Connect like two strings_ ,” Harry continues. He tries it together a couple of times, tinkering with the melody until Louis interrupts, abrupt.

“Why would two strings be connected? And what does that even have to do with hearts?”

“I don’t know, it just sounds good,” Harry says. “Like, I don’t know, like you’re connected or, I don’t know, tied together.”

“So it’d be, _tied up like two strings_ ,” Louis sings softly. Harry thinks he sounds like the most beautiful thing in the world. “But that still sounds shit. No offense. You’ve got to, like, make it into something beautiful. I think lyrics are the soul of song, y’know. If the melody’s the heart or whatever.”

Harry is so in love he wants to cry.

“Do you still write a lot of lyrics, then?” he asks, turning his head into Louis’ neck and nosing at the skin there.

“I used to write poetry when I was at school. A bit, I mean. Just the usual angsty shit. And the songs are mostly shredded or burned by now. They were shit, honestly.”

“Hey,” Harry says, his eyes brightening as he detaches himself from Louis and kneels in front of him in order to communicate the full extent of his excitement, “hey Louis. We could write a song together.”

“Harry…”

“Louis, you could be my Drew Barrymore.”

“How are you real.”

***

It’s midnight, and Louis is sat playing with the piano that Harry practically forgot he owned, not actually playing anything so much as simply pressing keys for the sake of it. Harry’s content to watch him, fiddling with the bracelets on his wrist and scooping the last of the egg fried rice out of the plastic container.

“So what if it’s ‘hands’?” Louis asks abruptly.

“What?”

“The start of the song. _My hands, your hands, tied up like…_ ”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Louis sighs, frustrated. “We’ve been up for hours and we’ve barely got anything. Is this what it’s normally like?”

“Writing a song? Oh, it’s the worst experience in the world.”

“Why do people do it, then?”

“Because the feeling when you finish a song, or when you finally get that tune you’ve been thinking of down on paper, or when someone else first hears something that comes from your mind, your heart…that’s what it’s all for. I bet you don’t like practising dances all too much. But when you’re performing it, for everyone, isn’t that the best feeling in the world?”

“It is,” Louis says, moving over to Harry and sitting next to him on the sofa. “I should probably get going. It’s late.”

“Stay.” It slips off Harry’s tongue before he knows what he’s saying, and Louis looks stunned.

“Do you have a spare room?”

“No. I don’t mind if you don’t, though? Like, if we share. It doesn’t mean anything, obviously,” Harry rambles. “Or I can sleep on the sofa if you want the bed, it doesn’t matter.”

“Haz, it’s fine. We can share, s’long as you’re not a blanket hog.”

***

Louis, it turns out, is a notorious blanket hog. He’s also a cuddler, latching on to Harry’s back and curling around him, pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder. It’s nice. They’re both only in their boxers, and Harry is trying desperately not to focus on the feeling of skin against skin, but it’s nice. Great, even. Just a thing friends do. Platonically.

When he wakes up, it’s to the tickle of Louis’ fingers over his bicep, and the sound of his song in his ear.

"Morning," he mumbles, voice raspy from sleep. Louis stills momentarily, fingers a soft pressure against Harry's arm and voice dying in his throat.

"Hi," Louis says softly. "I've figured out the first line."

"Proper poet, you are, writing in your sleep."

"Oh, I've been up for a while," Louis says. Harry thinks he might have been lying here that whole time, tracing gentle fingers over the dark lines of Harry's tattoos. He hopes that's the case, anyway. "But the answer was right there, y'know? _My hands, your hands, tied up like two ships_." Harry wants to cry and kiss Louis forever. He's got, like, a love boner. Louis was inspired by Harry's tattoo. He should create a folder with all the evidence that they're soulmates.

"That's beautiful," he responds honestly. This is feeling less platonic by the second. "What time s'it?"

"Just after eight. Your alarm went off, but you were fast asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

"We might actually have to do some dancing today, though," Harry says. "Would you like some breakfast? I've got, like, bacon and eggs and stuff."

"My hero," Louis replies, sounding completely serious. Harry rolls out of his grip and pads out into the kitchen, hoping Louis will appreciate the near-nakedness. He thinks that having a guy clad only in boxers making you brekafast is probably every gay man's dream.

Louis follows, with the apparent intention of making the strongest tea he can. He puts two teabags in his mug, and takes it black.

"Someone isn't a morning person," Harry comments.

"I would have coffee instead, but it tastes like Lucifer's soul," Louis says. "D'you want some?"

"Please."

Louis pours out another mug, and Harry notices that he's chosen the mug with the silly slogan on it: 'I'd rather be in bed' for himself. It's Harry's favourite mug. He's glad it's Louis', too. He also needs to stop planning out their life together, but that's an unrelated issue.

They eat breakfast together and Louis compliments the chef far too many times for such a simple meal, but he insists that it's the best bacon he's ever had in his entire life, and that if this is what Harry does every morning, he should just move in. Harry blushes and doesn't make any proposals that me might regret. Like marriage ones. It's just sickening, really, how Harry imagines that this is how their life together could be. Waking up beside one another, eating across a table and maybe - in the fantasy, that is - shower sex.

As it is, Louis asks to use the shower and Harry remarkably manages to not offer to join him. It's basically character growth.

***

"This is _fun_ ," Harry says, and Louis laughs at him. They've been practising for a couple of hours, with one of the trainers helping them figure it all out. The Jive isn't Louis' forte, apparently, and so they've had to enlist some help. Perrie and Zayn come into watch at around lunch time, possibly just to laugh at Louis trying to get Harry's kicks and flicks right. As it turns out, Harry is not graceful. But Louis has finally allowed a lift, so he's at least enthusiastic.

"Just _try_ not to drop me," Louis sighs as Harry places his hands on his waist.

"Aye aye, captain," Harry says, and hoists Louis off the floor. Louis makes a little shrieking sound and clutches at Harry's shoulders.

“Oh my god!” Louis yells. “Put me down, put me down!”

“Come on, Lou, I won’t drop you,” Harry smiles, spinning them around in a circle. “You barely weigh a thing. Practically a feather.”

“Stop showing off.”

“I’m doing no such thing. I’m simply demonstrating my superior strength and balance. I can’t believe you’d accuse me of such a thing. I’m shocked and upset.”

He knows his monotonous tone of voice is what makes Louis let out a high pitched giggle, burying his face in the top of Harry’s curls. Harry spins him around again and again until he gets dizzy, just like he used to do with his stylist’s little baby.

“Stop it!” Louis shrieks again. Harry laughs and settles him back down, sneaking a hand to tickle under his arm. He enjoys this – enjoys winding Louis up and making him squirm, drawing out a pink tint to his cheeks. He looks beautiful: flushed and sweaty, white t-shirt clinging to him, hair falling in his eyes where it’s getting too long. A few rehearsals he’s had to tie it back, but when it’s like this all Harry wants to do is run his hands through it. “Mercy! Mercy!”

“You’re so _easy_ ,” Harry says.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Louis says. “I’ll get my revenge on you sooner or later. I’ve got four little sisters, remember – there are tricks up my sleeve.”

There are indeed: that afternoon, when consulting with costume designers, Louis decides it’s time to bring back who he lovingly refers to as ‘Marcel’. “Except, do you think we could make him _even nerdier_ this time? Like, have you got a cardigan? Is he allowed to wear a cardigan? I feel like it would add to the effect. And, of course, I think you might’ve skimped on the hair gel last time. You need to really lay it on _thick_ , y’know?”

Harry might hate him.

***

So, it’s Halloween. Harry has put on the persona of Marcel. Louis looks stunning as always with his mostly naked body covered in strategic vines and green things. He’s meant to be the plant, or something. It’s a little bit weird.

And fun, though. It’s definitely the most fun they’ve had, jumping around and kicking and flicking. For once, Harry manages to keep up for the most part, and he lifts Louis without dropping him, and they get an enthusiastic round of applause, as well as an eight and three nines. Then it’s Louis who’s lifting Harry off his feet (holy fuck) in a tight hug. When he puts Harry back down, they’re both a little breathless, and Harry can’t stop staring at the light in Louis’ eyes.

They’re at the top of the leader board (or, at least, they are until Niall and Jade perform, straight after. They do _Defying Gravity_. Harry and Louis are doomed from the start.) and it feels a little bit like being on top of the world. Or maybe it’s just the way Louis’ filled with the excitement of it, the atmosphere. He keeps turning his head into Harry’s shoulder, arm tight around his waist. They look outrageously like a couple – Harry even sneaks a couple of kisses onto Louis’ glowing cheeks, enough that the bubbly blonde presenter laughs at them and makes a joke about the resident ‘married couple’.

“Who wouldn’t love him?” is all Louis has to say.

***

Next week’s Foxtrot is unbelievable, too. The numbers are dwindling, after Esther’s departure last week (which Harry and Louis _absolutely_ did not bet on) and it feels both more pressured, and a lot more fun. There are more appearances for publicity, and they hold hands through all of them. The tabloids are speculating more than ever, and they giggle at them while they sit on Harry’s bed, because Louis is sleeping over more often than not. Harry gets used to making breakfast for two, and they come to work together and leave with each other.

Naturally, questions are asked.

Firstly, it’s Zayn. Harry still goes to lunch with him on Wednesdays, because he believes that a healthy amount of separation from Louis is a good thing. Like, maybe an hour a day. Healthy.

“So, you and Louis.”

“What about me and Louis?” Harry says brightly.

“Mate. You’re like, spouses. Literally. He calls you darling. You make sandwiches for him, and I’ve seen them. They have the crusts cut off. Dude. _You cut off his crusts for him_. If that’s not love I don’t know what is.”

“I still don’t understand why he doesn’t like them. They’re the best part of the sandwich.”

“Harry. You are deliberately missing the point,” Zayn says. “You’re in love with him. Like, you are boyfriends.”

“We’re not! We haven’t even kissed yet!”

“Yet.”

“I am playing the long game, Zayn. I am in this to win it. Not that Louis is a prize to be won, or anything, I don’t mean it like that, of course I wouldn’t objectify him. But I have a _goal_. Whether that goal is a house in the south of France or simply a blowjob is sort of a bit undecided at the moment. I have to wait it out.”

“Mate. What the fuck.”

***

Then it’s the show’s producers, which is far more awkward. Harry cannot believe he’s had to meet with them twice, and this time they start talking about ‘intercourse’. Harry has to work exceptionally hard not to meet Louis’ eyes and burst out laughing. It’s a close thing.

“We can _assure_ you,” Louis says, smirking, “you have nothing to worry about. Mine and Harry’s relationship is strictly professional. Honestly.”

Thirty minutes later, they’re practising their Foxtrot to _All Of Me_ , and Harry’s considering how platonic they are. They’re so platonic that they’ve both seen each other’s dicks by now. Harry walked in on Louis peeing at eight in the morning the other day. He was all casual about it, too. He squeaked, “why didn’t you lock the door?” and Louis squawked that he was tired. Casual. And Harry walks around naked whenever he feels like it, so Louis’ basically used to it. They’re basically like brothers. Except how Harry thinks about Louis when he wanks, so maybe not brothers.

***

No matter what everyone says, Harry thinks they’re fine. They work like this, that’s all. Harry is dancing romantically to a John Legend song with Louis this week, and has so far managed to resist kissing him. It’s not his fault that long-term commitment turns him on. He can control himself.

He thinks it’s going pretty well, too. Not, like, brilliant, but there’s definitely something there. It’s probably just that they work well with the dances that require staring deeply into each other’s eyes. It’s a thing – they evaluated it in _Marie Claire_. They consistently perform better with romantic songs. Or something like that, anyway. Louis insists all the magazines are printed a load of bollocks, but Harry quite agrees with that one.

So, by the time Saturday arrives, he’s feeling fairly confident. He’s got Louis by his side and the whole of Britain rooting for them to get married, which is a concept he can get behind. Life is good.

They watch Aiden do his Quickstep, Zayn and Perrie Waltz, Geneva Rumba, Katie Paso Doble, and then it’s their turn. Louis leads for most of the dance, and when they go in for Harry’s spin he trips – barely noticeable – but enough that Harry knows Louis will wear his look of disapproval later. He takes deep breaths through his nose and gets back into the rhythm of the dance immediately, clenching his abs when Louis dips him down and stepping in at the right times. They move in tandem even as Harry’s palm becomes sweatier and Louis’ face becomes harder, eyes still blazing with fake love, but jaw set with displeasure.

“Beautiful!” Bruno exclaims, upon the finish. “Your chemistry is _incredible_! You move so gorgeously together, it is like you are just in sync.” There are a lot of hand flourishes. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever met someone so aggressively gay.

“Daarling,” Craig drawls. Harry retracts his previous thought. “It wasn’t your best night. You never recovered from your stumble – ”

“That was a _perfect_ recovery!” Bruno interrupts. Craig looks as though he would happily murder all of the other judges at the table.

“Your face, daarling, after that stumble, showed that you were worried.”

Harry basically tunes out. The bickering is mostly for the benefit of the viewers, not him. He knows what he did wrong, and even if he didn’t, Louis will take pleasure in dissecting their performance tomorrow. He’s stopped being as harsh as he was, or maybe the insults are softened by their time spent together. Either way, as long as they do it cuddled up on Harry’s bed or his sofa, he thinks he’ll be okay.

***

“You staying over tonight?” Harry ventures softly once they’ve filmed the first show and are getting read for the second. The remaining five acts had all done relatively well, excepting Nicolò’s Charleston. Harry’s put his money where his mouth is, which Louis insists is unfair because he actually agrees with Harry’s pick, for once.

“I mean, I know Katie is complete shit, but everyone loves her.” This week, she’s received a three and three fives from the judges. She’s still clinging on somehow, though. “So she’ll never be in the bottom two,” Louis continues. “I don’t know. Maybe if Sophia gets kicked off she’ll stop glaring at me. And Geneva as well.” They still haven’t spoken to Louis (or Harry) since the whole betting incident came to light. “I guess I’ll place my bet on Soph, then.” The irony is not lost on either of them.

In reply to Harry’s question, Louis makes a general humming sound and shrugs a shoulder, which is about as vague as he’s been all week. Harry’s stomach sinks.

When they stand on the steps for the elimination sequence, though, Louis’ fingers still brush where Harry’s pulse is hammering, in such a sweet gesture of comfort that Harry feels his cheeks burn with it. Their names are called out quickly, their spotlight goes out, and Harry’s allowed to bury his face in Louis’ neck, a tight hug that has both of them letting out aborted laughs.

They’re sobered by the results, however, which put Zayn and Perrie in the bottom two. They both look devastated, and shocked. Their Waltz had scored the same as Harry and Louis’ dance, a respectable thirty-one points. On the leader board, they’d been behind only Aiden, Liam and Niall.

Before their ‘save me’ dance, they have a chance to talk to the others, and Harry hugs Zayn tight, wishing him good luck repeatedly until Niall drags his boyfriend away for a good luck kiss.

Of course, it’s Nicolò who’s sent home, to pretty much everyone’s relief. They think he compares himself to Jesus just before he walks out, but they’re not sure. It’s hard to tell whether he’s being serious.

“I want to be with you tonight,” Louis whispers into Harry’s neck once the lights fade and the crew starts yelling at everyone to pack up. Harry hesitates before he presses a kiss to the top of Louis head and takes his hand, leading him out of the studio and into the night air. It’s growing colder – the air around them is crisp and infused with the later scents of autumn; Louis shivers until Harry wraps his jacket around him. He’s still flushed from the night’s adrenaline and doesn’t miss it.

They call a taxi and are silent for the duration of the ride, are silent when they get out and go up to Harry’s apartment. They’re silent until they fall into the bed together and wrap their legs together under the duvet and Louis murmurs like a secret, “I wanted to do better.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I’m sorry.”

“I just don’t want this to be over yet,” Louis admits. “I don’t want…I don’t want to lose you just yet. I want more time where we can be like this.”

“Fuck, Lou, I’m not gonna leave you when this is all over. I – you’re part of my life now. If you leave me alone I’ll have to get, like, twenty cats so I don’t have to be alone at night. And besides, we need to finish our song together.”

Louis’ smile is visible even in the dark. “ _My hands, your hands, tied up like two ships_ ,” he sings in a whisper. “ _Drifting, weightless, waves trying to break us._ ”

“ _I’d do anything to save us_ ,” Harry replies.

Louis kisses his collarbone before they drift to sleep in each other’s arms.

***

“Wake up!” Louis yells. Harry squints into the light.

“What time is it?” he croaks. “Fuck, let me sleep. I can’t do this. I’m dying.”

“Oh, stop being such a drama queen. You want to do _well_ this week, don’t you? And you want to make me breakfast. Fried bread and eggs, please.”

“What the fuck are we even doing this week?” Harry swears a lot more when he’s tired.

“You’ve seen _Moulin Rouge!_ , haven’t you? Well, we’re Argentine tangoing to _El Tango de Roxanne_. It will be amazing. Or it will be if you move your lazy sodding arse, c’mon.”

Harry sits up. “I hate you,” he says. Louis smacks a kiss onto his cheek.

***

“For god’s sake, Haz, stop holding me at arm’s length. I’m hardly going to _bite_ you. Just align our hips – there! You’ve got it. Now, leg through the gap, yes, and let yourself fall. I’ll catch you, don’t worry, just fall and twist. I’m holding your hands the entire time.”

It’s the most passionate dance they’ve done yet, the first one that pushes them up close and fast and _hot_. It’s Wednesday, and they’re beginning to practise all of the complicated lifts and drops: Harry flipping Louis over, Louis holding Harry up for a drop and twist, Harry trying to lift Louis onto his shoulder and spin without stumbling. It’s the hardest dance of the season so far, definitely, and Louis’ not giving an inch when it comes to technique. They have to be on beat, moving in perfect synchronicity, all the time. It’s a bloody nightmare, and Harry loves it.

It’s just that sort of dance, where all there is is feeling and closeness and passion. The passion seems to become a physical thing, making the air around them hot with it.

“Fuck,” Harry says at the end of the day, and Louis toasts the sentiment with his bottle of water. They barely look at each other, too much left unsaid in the wake of the dance. Too much electricity in the air between them, crackling like it wants to be heard. _Fuck_.

***

Harry wakes up near midnight that night with arousal twisting low in his gut and another’s hand on his stomach, Louis plastered sticky against his back. The covers have been kicked off and the press of Louis’ hard length makes Harry’s breath hitch and his foot twitch, awakeness falling over him like a tidal wave. He moans before he can keep the sound in, with how Louis’ moving incrementally against him, steady breathing confirming that he’s still asleep. Harry wonders if he’d ever know, if Harry were to just take what he needs right now, were to just grind against Louis until he can see straight again.

He groans out loud again when he realises he can’t do that – that he cares about Louis too much to deceive him or use him like that.

Instead, he jerks out of the other man’s grip and runs into the bathroom, slumping against the bathtub and bringing himself off with short, desperate thrusts into his hand, thinking about the slick of Louis’ sweat against him and the feeling of his pure _want_. Harry knows that it’s nothing to do with him, that Louis getting an erection in his sleep means nothing, but with how close they are when they sleep together and how the smells of their sweat mingle, Harry can barely think straight. He hisses out a breath when he comes, imagining it’s Louis’ hand around him instead.

When he slips back into bed he feels guilty, like he’s done something really bad instead of sneaking off for a wank in the middle of the night. As soon as he lies down again, Louis latches back on, and Harry just closes his eyes, breathing deeply though his nose and smiling when the smell of Louis’ cologne comes off the pillows. It’s like they’re a part of each other, like Louis is carving out a space in Harry’s life and leaving his mark all over what there was before, and Harry loves it.

***

“Are you gonna wear panties this week?” Louis asks, casual as anything, while they’re sat eating lunch in a _public place_. Harry chokes on a chip.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Why not? I mean, not to sound arrogant or anything, but it seems like this is one of the dances that might…get to you.” Louis smirks, because he is an arrogant little shit.

“I don’t – I just – shut up! I’ll deal with it, it’s fine. Fucking hell.”

“I don’t think it is,” Louis says, grinning wickedly. “I think we might have to find you some. Or, theoretically, I might have found you some.” Harry gasps on an inhale. If Louis has actually bought him underwear, he thinks he might combust. “There, that’s got your attention. What do you think, princess? Do you wanna see?” Not for the first time, Harry really wishes Louis would just fuck him. He nods dumbly and gets up from the table with half his meal still on his plate, chucking down some money that he hopes covers the bill. Louis laughs bright and airy and follows, looking like someone who’s just told a funny joke, rather than someone who’s bought ladies’ undergarments for his totally platonic dance partner.

When they get home, Louis grins impishly at him for a second longer before he dashes into the bedroom and emerges with a black bag in his hand, silver writing on it saying ‘Agent Provocateur’. Harry nearly faints. Louis bought him _expensive_ underwear. Louis pulls out a pair of black ones that, at first glance, seem fairly ordinary. He looks Harry up and down until Harry feels like he’s burning, and says, “Well, go try them on, then.”

Harry does. He stares at himself in the mirror ones they’re on. There are two bars to the skimpy briefs, a higher waist strip as well as the briefs themselves. The lace is black and slightly see-through, decorated with little bows in places. But the worst thing is the back. Instead of covering his arse, there are six strips of lace which meet in the middle. Half of his bum is still visible, pale and striking against the black. He wants to cry about how pretty he looks, twisting this way and that.

Louis doesn’t knock before he comes in.

“Pretty,” he comments, voice lower than usual, and Harry flushes all over. His eyes roll back into his head when Louis touches one of the bows, so close to where Harry’s dick is tucked a bit sideways to fit. “Knew they’d make you look so pretty.”

“Lou…”

“It’s okay, Haz,” Louis says, brushing his fingers over the lace. “You’ll wear them Saturday, right?”

“I…yes,” Harry murmurs, voice hoarse.

***

Something has changed. Harry knows it, when they get in place for the dance. He can feel it twisting in the air between them, heat and lust and something deep that has Harry’s heart pumping fast and his eyes darkening. The music starts up, the spotlight comes on, they take their first steps. Louis’ touch is electric, Harry’s body feels like it’s lighter than it’s ever been. The way they move together is crackling with chemistry that’s been there since the beginning, yes, but it’s hotter now – whether that’s because Harry is wearing knickers picked out by Louis, that they both know it, or if it’s just the Argentine Tango, a dance so bursting with passion that it’s dried up Harry’s throat, leaving him breathless.

Their hands are on each other’s waists, faces, hips, everywhere. Louis’ lips are slightly parted and his pupils are huge, like he’s drugged. Harry executes the lifts without a problem, high on adrenaline, and when Louis lets him drop he manages to twist lithely in his grip, drawing out a cheer from the audience. The dance ends with Harry flipping Louis upside down, arm barely shaking with the effort. His chest heaves and the music fades into nothing as Harry lets Louis down carefully.

In the moments before they need to go over to the judges, they stare into each other’s eyes for endless moments, both breathing heavily.

Louis kisses Harry before he has a chance to think.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not a chaste kiss, is the thing, especially for one that’s happening on live telly – but Harry can’t bring himself to particularly care when Louis’ got one hand in the curls at the back of Harry’s hair, the other resting on his waist. Harry opens up to it easily, body slipping into a pliant state against Louis’, pressing them closer together. All he can feel is wet heat and the insistence of Louis’ lips and tongue and hands, and everything else is just a white noise in his mind.

When Louis pulls back, his eyes are bright and his lips are slick and reddened. His breathing is even heavier than before, and Harry has to blink heavily, dazed, before he can even begin to let in sounds again. The audience is left in a stunned sort of silence, it seems, their clapping having abruptly stopped. The there’s a half-hearted whoop from the back of the stadium, followed by a smattering of applause, which breaks into something loud and thunderous, echoing in Harry’s bones. “Oops,” he murmurs, and Louis’ eyes crinkle with his smile. They link their fingers together as they head over to the judges independently of their usual presenter-escort; she’s stood stock-still, as though frozen by events. The judges’ faces are, for the most part, unreadable, although Bruno is visibly vibrating in his seat.

The applause takes some time to die down, at which point Craig instantly launches into his usual spiel about their dance. The audience start to boo despite the complimentary nature of his remarks; it’s obvious they couldn’t care less about the dance itself, consumed by a hunger for gossip.

Bruno relieves his colleague of the duty of trying to calm down those watching, Harry barely hears what he says, though – it’s at such a rapid rate, and he’s stopped paying attention to non-Louis things. Bruno draws out a few bursts of laughter from the audience, however, excitedly making fun of Louis’ kissing technique. Louis laughs, too, and there’s barely a thread of strain in his musical tone.

“It was sort of a spur of the moment thing,” he admits, “But Harry was just gorgeous out there tonight.” He squeezes Harry’s hand as he says it, and Harry bites his lip.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” he says on live TV, because why not tell the truth when practically everyone in the country has seen how you French kiss? “Louis here is rather irresistible. I’ve been slowly seducing him with my curls.”

“We’re going to take a short break,” the presenter finally manages to croak out, once more taking control of the proceedings. This is a novelty; the BBC doesn’t take commercial breaks. People literally pay because the BBC doesn’t take commercial breaks. Harry has literally no idea how they’re going to get away with that without getting sued, or something. He’s also probably going to get sued, come to think of it. That’s inconvenient.

“So. Consequences,” Louis says, once someone yells that they’re off air.

“Consequences,” Harry responds. He can’t stop smiling.

Louis kisses him on the lips once more; Harry guesses it’s for good luck.

***

There are consequences. They’re not bad ones, considering, but the literally _not allowed_ to win _Strictly_. Harry doesn’t know how the studio is going to pull that one off, but they’re to be eliminated as soon as possible, without actually firing them from the show. Their morality clauses are brought out and someone highlights sections with a sickly yellow pen. Apparently they didn’t keep it PG enough. Harry thinks that’s a fair accusation, really.

“You need to think about what your actions might provoke,” the stern man tells them. It feels like being in Primary School all over again.

“More viewers?” Louis suggests. “More tabloid coverage?”

“A love that will last the ages?” Harry says, looking directly at Louis. Louis rolls his eyes.

They get sent out without another word.

***

In the end, they’re awarded an eight from Craig and tens from everyone else for their dance. Everyone keeps emphasising that it’s for their _dance_ , not what happened afterwards. Louis and Harry keep giggling. It’s hard to focus on anything except how they can’t wait to get their hands on each other, properly. Harry had considered that Louis might’ve regretted what he did, but his countenance hasn’t changed a bit, and his arm stays around Harry’s waist for the rest of the evening, smirk fixed firmly on his face.

They don’t even get an interview, which Harry is glad about. He’s never liked them all that much, and with the way the hostess is looking at them, it’s most definitely for the best. He’s never seen such murderous intent in eyes that are so smothered in glitter. It’s somewhat disconcerting.

During the break between shows, Louis drags Harry into the toilet and pushes him up against the sinks, not kissing him but nibbling his way down Harry’s jaw and neck like the infuriating tease he is. When they go back, Harry’s eyes are glassy and there are little red marks adorning his throat like a claim, and everyone thinks they’ve fucked. There is nothing Harry can say in his own defence. The judgemental looks are only slightly countered by Niall’s continuous stream of lewd winks and thumbs ups. Most people just sigh and roll their eyes.

They get through the second show, in which someone is eliminated and Harry couldn’t really care less. He doesn’t think he needs any stupid bet to take Louis out on dates any more.

***

“Your place or mine?” Louis says somewhat hoarsely, once they’re outside in the frigid November air. The strain in his voice is the first sign he’s given that he’s just as affected by the wait as Harry.

“Let’s go home,” Harry responds decisively. Forward as it is to describe the flat that’s technically his as their ‘home’ – he just can’t help it. Louis belongs in bed, in his home, and in his life. There’s no skirting around it any more – not with Louis’ grand gesture and all. He doesn’t object, either; he just swallows and presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder while he calls a taxi.

The silence in the car is thick – not awkward, just meaningful. They keep flashing smiles in each other’s directions, biting their lips coyly and hooking their feet together. Harry feels like there’s a buzzing in his veins, and they haven’t even gotten changed out of their outfits from the second show, having been so eager to get out of the studio and back home. Luckily, home isn’t too far away, and they get back before either of them does anything that might have offended the driver’s sensibilities. Harry chucks a couple of five pound notes at him and practically pulls Louis out of the car, giggling when Louis falls into him. They link their fingers together until they’re inside and then Louis’ pressing Harry up against the door as soon as it’s closed, latching on to the pulse point on the side of his neck. Harry makes an aborted groaning noise and manages to grit out, “Fucking vampire.”

Louis’ head pops up from the deep red bruise he’d been sucking on and he grins, flashing sharp canines. “You love it,” he states, squeezing at Harry’s crotch through his jeans.

“Just don’t want you to get a big head,” Harry says, biting down on his smile. Louis surges up and catches his bottom lip between his own teeth, nibbling and sucking and only pulling back when Harry’s lips are a cherry red and he feels light-headed. “God, can we – bedroom?”

“Course, babe,” Louis smiles, twisting their hands together. He pulls Harry into their room and gently pushes him onto the bed, immediately crawling on top of him and pressing his shoulders down into the sheets, pressing kiss after kiss to Harry’s swollen lips, never pausing long enough so Harry can deepen it, can lick into his mouth and taste him like he’s craving. He sneaks cold hands under Harry’s dress shirt and starts undoing buttons, torturously slow. Harry surges up so that Louis can pull his jacket off his shoulders, as well as taking off the red bowtie and flinging it to some corner of the room.

“Please, Lou,” Harry murmurs, voice deeper than usual and hands itching to touch, but not knowing if he’s allowed.

“Oh, sweetheart, you want permission?” Louis asks, catching on quick. Maybe it’s because of how glazed Harry’s eyes always are when Louis tells him what to do; he’d been mad to think Louis hadn’t noticed. “Give me a moment, love, got to get you naked first.” He accompanies his words by undoing the last button and taking the black shirt off of Harry, sitting back on Harry’s thighs to look over him appraisingly. “Although, I suppose I shouldn’t say _naked_ ,” Louis adds thoughtfully. “We’ll be keeping the panties on, of course.”

Harry shudders bodily at that. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten that they were there, it’s just that his mind hadn’t been as focused on them, after the kiss. But now Louis’ getting rid of his trousers and suddenly he’s exposed apart from the skimpy black lace, wrapped lovingly around his cock. Louis shuffles down Harry’s legs and leans forward to press a kiss to it, and Harry’s abdomen clenches with the effort of remaining motionless. “So gorgeous,” Louis mutters, tongue dancing out to wet the fabric. Harry whimpers and turns his face so that he can bite down on the inside of his bicep, trying to ground himself.

Louis sits up again, and the sudden lack of contact has Harry’s hips rising as he tries to chase the sensation. “Roll over,” Louis says, his voice as commanding as it is when they’re practising a dance. Harry feels a rush of heat and a dribble of pre-come wets the knickers further as he turns so he’s on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow. Louis gets off him to grab a cushion from the pile that Harry can never be bothered to put on the bed and prop it under his hips. “Okay, love?”

“Do something,” Harry begs, and Louis rubs a hand soothingly over his back, tracing over the waistband of the pants before he moves down the bed and his hands are replaced quite abruptly with his tongue. It’s then that Harry realises what an innovative design the knickers really are: they don’t even cover where Louis has spread his cheeks to lick in, and he can still feel the soft lace tickling his skin as Louis works over him, getting his hole slick with spit. Harry lets his moans tumble out uncontrolled, unable to restrain himself with Louis’ mouth addictive on his skin. “Mo-ore,” he chokes out. “Please.”

“How polite,” Louis laughs against his arse, and Harry whines at the vibration. The older man alternates between licking broad stripes over Harry’s hole, and poking his tongue inside. Harry doesn’t even know what noises he’s making anymore, random strings of vowels falling from his lips as he ruts helplessly against the pillow. “C’mon, baby, you can come for me, can’t you?” Louis urges, palming at Harry’s arse while he redoubles his efforts, licking Harry out with purpose and turning Harry into a shivering wreck. It’s only a minute or so before Harry moans as his vision whites out momentarily, come seeping into the black lace. Louis doesn’t stop straight away, continuing with little kitten licks to soothe Harry through his orgasm. “You okay, babe?” he asks, pulling back slightly. Harry mumbles something incoherent, and Louis chuckles at him.

“Wanna make you come,” Harry slurs out eventually.

“That’s okay, babe, you’re tired.”

Harry considers this. His eyelids are drooping, an automatic response to orgasming, and he wants nothing more than for Louis to cuddle up to him and for them both to go to sleep. “Come on me,” he suggests finally, turning his head to look up at Louis’ expression. For an instant, he looks taken aback, but then he smirks.

“You’re a dirty boy, aren’t you.”

“Just do it, Lou,” Harry says, halfway to begging. “Wanna—want you to feel good.”

He hears rather than sees Louis tug his trousers off, pants following soon after, as he lets his eyes drift shut and listens to the slick sound of Louis’ hand getting himself off. Louis’ shuddering breaths are like music to his ears, and when his sharp gasp marks his orgasm, Harry feels like it’s his favourite lullaby. Louis’ come is on his skin like a mark, and he feels Louis’ fingers drift through it, spreading it into Harry’s skin. “Look so good, babe,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m gonna go get something to clean us up with, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

Harry falls asleep, skin sticky and contentness seeping through his bones, before Louis gets back.

***

“Should we talk about it?” Louis asks, while they’re sat eating breakfast the next morning. “I mean, like, we should, obviously, but…”

“It’s okay, Lou,” Harry says gently. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I know you don’t like to sleep with your dance partners, and I don’t want to complicate things for you. But, personally, I love this. What we’ve got right now, it’s good. I like coming home together and sleeping together and cooking for you, and if we add sex to that, I’ll like that too.”

Louis looks appraisingly at him. “I’m not some sort of commitment-phobe, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he states.

“I know. I didn’t say that.”

“I just don’t want you to think that I’m, like, _scared_ or anything. I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while, though, or really at all. There was this guy I slept with regularly for about a year, but we weren’t really… Anyway. What I’m saying is that I’m just not really sure how to do this. I’m not sure how to do Valentine’s Day presents or remember anniversaries or hold hands all the time.”

“Louis. You don’t have to be. That’s what I just said.” Harry feels like he has to communicate in very short sentences, as though talking to a child. “I want to continue the way we are. If you still want to have sex with me, that’s fine too. You don’t have to change how you are with me or call me your boyfriend or do anything you don’t want to. I don’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day or any of that crap. I _do_ care about _you_. That’s what I’m doing this for. Not some magical romance story or tabloid relationship.” That’s half true, he thinks. Their romance story _is_ pretty magical, in his opinion.

“I would like to keep having sex with you,” Louis says. “You have a very cute butt.”

“Thank you. Would you like to call me your boyfriend?”

“I…think I wouldn’t mind it, yes.”

Harry narrowly resists the urge to get up and cheer, contenting himself by kicking Louis in the shin under the table and smiling so brightly he thinks it might split his face in two.

***

It takes a while for the buzz to die down. People keep coming up to Harry and Louis on the street – it’s twice as likely if they’re together – and saying they’re happy for them, or that they knew about it from the start. They’re not out of newspaper headlines until Thursday. They get the term ‘love affair of the century’ bandied around so often that it could be said that the phrase loses its meaning entirely. Body language specialists discuss them on the ten o’clock news. Paparazzi start camping outside Harry’s house again, until they’re reminded that there’s actually an injunction against them from back in 2013 and they scamper.

Their fellow contestants are utterly insufferable. Zayn follows them around making kissing noises; Niall bakes a cake for them with icing spelling out: ‘Bet Harry gives good head’. There’s also a dick iced into it, as if it was too subtle without it. Perrie starts cackling whenever she sees them. Liam wishes them a sincere congratulations. The latter is the most uncomfortable experience of Harry’s entire adult life. It ends with an honest to god handshake.

It feels like every moment they’re not being harassed by do-gooders, they’re practising. They’ve got to top last week’s performance, whilst accounting for spontaneous trips to the loo whenever the desire to lick Louis’ sweat out of his collarbones gets too much for Harry (“You’re gross,” Louis says, pressed up against the wall of the toilet cubicle. “Are you complaining?” Harry counters, dropping to his knees.).

They’re up against the Charleston this week, sticking to the theme from last week and dancing to a song from _Moulin Rouge!_. This time, it’s _Sparkling Diamonds_ , and Harry thinks it’s the perfect opportunity to don leather trousers and a sparkly pink feather boa. Louis thinks he’s ridiculous, but that’s okay. It’s the good kind of ridiculous.

“There’s a pink feather in your hair,” Louis says.

“We’re in a room full of mirrors, Louis. I know. I think it looks pretty.” Harry pouts. “Do you not think it looks pretty?”

“Oh my god.”

***

They do well, when it comes to Saturday. Harry manages to tap into his natural exuberance and project it, as well as letting his chemistry with his _boyfriend_ shine. There are a lot of lifts. Louis is upside down at one point; Harry does a very bad cartwheel. They jump about a lot and smile until their jaws ache.

“I didn’t think you could top your dance from last week!” Bruno yells at them. “But that was very close! You made it your own! You made it fun! You are lovely together!”

“It was more technically accurate than last week,” says Craig. He looks bored, or maybe that’s just in comparison with Bruno. It’s hard to tell. “You really got into the mood of the dance. I’m pressed. Well done.”

Len says something about bring fun back to _Strictly_. Darcey tells them they both look gorgeous. No one even mentions the feather boa, but Harry maintains that it was the star of the performance. It’s what’s going to get them the votes. Honest. The presenter looks slightly less murderous this week, although she still addresses them slightly coldly when she asks them what they thought of the dance. Louis says, “It was great that we managed to control our raging lust for each other this time, huh?” The murderous look is back.

Zayn has already done his American Smooth, with generally tepid scores (as compared to his previous scores. A seven, eight and two nines aren’t really things to turn your nose up at.), as has Rebecca.

Harry and Louis get rushed through their scores – every single member of the crew hates them by now – and are awarded three nines and a ten from Bruno. Then it’s Liam with a respectable Tango, followed by Niall’s Viennese Waltz. Harry’s getting a bit tired of the weekly repetition by this point. He knows that all the dances are different and beautiful in their own ways, but really they’re all just dances. And he feels like he’s watched about a million over the last nine weeks.

Aiden does a fun Samba to the _Macarena_ , although his facial expression doesn’t become any less morbid throughout. That sort of adds to the humour, and he ends up getting two tens, putting him ahead of Louis and Harry. “We were way better,” Louis fumes. “He’s just a comic act.”

“Do you think we’d get more points if we fucked on the dance floor?” Harry contemplates.

“Shut up, Harry,” says everyone within a five metre radius.

***

“So you sort of live here,” Harry states, once Rebecca has been eliminated and sobbed her way out of the stadium and they’re back home. “I keep thinking of it as ‘ours’ in my head.”

“Me too,” Louis admits. “You let me put my dirty shoes on the sofa.”

“I do _not_ ,” Harry says indignantly. “You just do it whether I tell you it’s all right or not. But, like, what I’m saying is, would you like some space? We don’t have to be this, I don’t know, _serious_ already.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harold. I’d be lost without you, and your bacon. Seriously, darling, your cooking is stellar. In another life, you’re definitely the next Gordon Ramsey.” Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. “But, okay, you want to be serious: I like living with you. Or, y’know, sort of living with you.”

“Yeah, sort of,” Harry says.

***

“You’re kidding me,” Harry says.

“No, I’m not. It’s a beautiful song. It’ll be a privilege to dance to it.”

“Are you actually _eighty years old_?”

“That’s rude, Haz.”

“No, seriously. Why can’t we do something cool? Katie’s doing _Surfin’ U.S.A._ They’re gonna have a surfboard on the dance floor. They’re gonna have _fun_.”

“I resent the accusation that, by doing _Edelweiss_ , we will somehow have less fun. We’ll have plenty of fun.” Louis offsets the statement by waggling his eyebrows.

“No, don’t do that, that’s my mum’s favourite movie, stop. It’s not a sexy song. God.”

“Where is your respect for the great Austrian nation, Harry? Your respect for the greatest films of a generation? Your respect for _love_ and _sacrifice_ and – ”

“Oh my god, stop. Please. We’ll do it. I’m just telling you that it will be awful. Even grannies will get bored. We’ll send the judges into a coma. Also, why did we get _Austria_? Surely there are songs about other countries? Like, we could’ve done _Ra Ra Rasputin_. Or something,” Harry complains. It’s “Around the World” week for the _Strictly_ gang, because why not roll out every gimmick imaginable? Harry has discussed this with some of the other contestants, and they’re all thinking that it’s getting dangerously close to cultural appropriation in some cases. For example, Zayn’s song is from Turkey, and he’s feeling dubious about the stereotypical costume. Harry is feeling dubious about this entire thing.

“It’ll be great,” Louis reassures him. “And anyway, it’s no more ridiculous than that _fucking_ feather boa.”

“I guess there’s no chance of bringing that back,” Harry says sorrowfully.

Louis glares at him. “I had the costume department _shred it_.”

“When you think about it, it’s a fairly inoffensive piece of costume, Louis. I don’t know why you hate it so much.” He sort of does. He had been slightly insufferable. And the practice room had developed a chronic infestation of pink feathers.

“Will it make you happy if we dress you in a gaping open, see-through white shirt that billows in the wind?”

“That would actually make me really happy, yes,” Harry says.

“I’ll arrange it,” Louis sighs. “Now, you remember how to waltz, don’t you? Or am I going to have to teach you that again…”

“No, no, I’ve got it. I’ll be fine.”

***

It’s nice to go back to a romantic dance, even if Harry still insists that the choice is music is an unbelievable turn off. They get to drift around nice and slow, and Harry looks forward to any dance during which Louis holds him or sways him or – well, he pretty much looks forward to any dance in which Louis touches him. But. It’s nice, that’s all. The footwork is more difficult, naturally, but Harry’s picking it up fairly quickly.

He gets his way with the billowy white shirt, too, which he wasn’t fully expecting. Louis’ quite a traditionalist when it comes to costume for the more formal dances, and he’s chosen a tuxedo for himself. It’s got white lining, though, and he’s chosen a white tie with a black shirt, so they sort of match. Harry manages to negotiate a pale pink flower to go in his curls, and Louis tells him that he has a surprise for him on Saturday. Harry nags him about it for a full thirty minutes before he gets distracted by one of their handlers, who is passing by with a young child.

“Who is _this_?” he coos, following the person and their baby along the corridor.

“Oh, she’s not mine,” the lady says. “I’m looking after her for Ronnie, y’know, the sound technician? I can’t actually stand babies much, myself. Did you want to hold her?”

“What’s her name?”

“Oh, this is little Lucy. She’s just turning one tomorrow,” the woman says, handing the gurgling baby over into Harry’s arms.

“Louis!” Harry calls gleefully. “Look at how cute she is!”

“She’s adorable, love,” Louis says, voice softer than Harry’s ever heard it. “You know we have to get back to practising soon, though, right?”

Harry nods somewhat grumpily, continuing to hold out his finger in the hope that Lucy will grab onto it. “In a minute,” he promises, tickling the baby’s tummy. She shrieks happily, and Harry lets out a shocked exhale. “I made her laugh! Oh my god.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Louis sighs. “You’ve got five minutes.” He pauses. “Then I’m holding her.”

***

Louis’ surprise, on Saturday morning, is a new pair of panties. “For, like, tradition,” he says.

They’re beautiful: soft white cotton, with little pink bows at each hip. Harry loves them immediately, and he’s considering starting to wear pants like these more often. It’s not just a sex thing, and he thinks Louis knows that. It’s the way he feels pretty when he wears them – the same way he feels pretty with flowers in his hair or lipstick glittering on his mouth. He’s always liked things like this, from when he was little and he’d ‘borrow’ Gemma’s make-up. It just makes him feel warm and beautiful and, to a lesser degree, relaxed.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I love them.”

Louis kisses him gently and helps him pull off his blood-restricting skinny jeans, and Harry quickly replaces his boxers with the pretty panties. He feels it wash over him like a drug, that intoxicating feeling of femininity.

“You look gorgeous,” Louis says. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

Harry bites his lower lip, feeling overwhelmed with how close that is to Louis actually saying the l-word. “Can I wear lip-gloss, too, d’you think?”

“You’ll have to clear it with the make-up girls,” Louis shrugs. “Not sure they could deny you anything, love? Now, did you want to go in to the studio and do more practise, or do you want to sit around here and have a musicals marathon?”

***

They watch _The Sound of Music_ , _Grease_ because it’s Louis’ favourite, and _Les Mis_ because it’s Harry’s. Harry cries seven times overall, while Louis hovers around the four mark. But that’s not really a fair comparison, because Louis keeps doing that weird thing where he only lets one tear fall, and Harry’s more prone to full-on weeping.

“Just because you’re all…stupid, and manly,” Harry sniffs, looking at the tissues collected around him, “doesn’t mean you get to make fun of me. You don’t understand what the revolution _means_. They’re just so _angry_ , and then _Eponine_ …”

“It’s okay, love, it’s okay,” Louis says, patting his knee reassuringly.

“All they wanted was _change_ ,” Harry sobs, perhaps a touch dramatically.

“Right. Look, babe, we’re gonna have to get going soon? Is this last song that important to you?” Louis asks.

“Louis. It’s _Valjean’s Death_. Of course it’s important to me. God.”

“It’s fucking Cosette and Marius simpering away at each other,” Louis grumbles, getting up from their nest of blankets on the sofa. “Hugh Jackman can’t even _sing_.”

“You take that back.”

“Not a chance. He’s all…vibrato-y.”

“That’s not a _bad_ thing,” Harry insists petulantly. “Fine, let’s go. I won’t stand for this utter ignorance in the ways of musical theatre.”

“I’ve _seen_ Les Mis on the West End!” Louis says. “Their Valjean could actually hold a note, something which appears to be vastly underrated in this film.” He proceeds to do a terrible imitation of _Valjean’s Soliloquy_ , with such exaggerated vibrato that Harry bursts out laughing.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, altogether too fondly.

***

They only end up having half an hour to do a final couple of run-throughs, but they’re fairly confident that their dance is good. “I think the Waltz really is your specialty,” Louis says, and Harry preens for no reason other than that he likes impressing Louis.

Everyone’s already in the green room when they get there, so they take the proffered champagne and sit on the sofas, listening to the producer giving them a run-down of how it’s all going to work. It’s the same every week, so Harry stopped listening months ago. It doesn’t help that their producer is a plump middle-aged man who’s prone to giving Harry (and Louis) dirty looks, especially after the kissing incident.

“It’s almost the quarter final,” they’re told. “It’s almost over.”

“Thank god,” Harry says. Louis punches him in the arm.

Once they’re all shepherded out into their places, Harry decides to share with Louis what he’s been working on since day one.

“Hey, Lou,” he whispers. “Wanna hear a joke?”

Louis looks at him sceptically. “Um.”

“Why didn’t the skeleton dance at the ball?”

“Oh, god.”

“Because he had _no body to go with_.” Harry waits for laugh. The silence seems unnecessarily rude.

“That’s awful,” Louis says.

“Okay, fine. What is a pig’s favourite ballet?”

“No, Harry. No.”

“ _Swine Lake_!” Harry cackles.

“Please stop.”

“What sort of dance does a plumber do?” This is his best one, he thinks. If this doesn’t win Louis over, there’s no hope.

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t fucking know.” Louis has never looked as world-weary as he does right now.

“A _tap_ dance!”

“If you tell me another one I swear to god I will break up with you, Styles.”

Harry shuts up.

***

The first act of the night is Niall and Jade, with their Viennese Waltz, which they perform whilst wearing the most stereotypical costumes to represent the Netherlands that anyone could think of. It would be embarrassing, but Niall takes it with good humour. It’s a fair dance, and they get two tens out of it.

Then it’s up to Liam and Leigh-Anne to, whilst clad in glittery American flags, Salsa to _Viva Las Vegas_. With the strobe lighting and the fruit machine sound effects, it’s the most lurid thing Harry has ever witnessed. The scores are low, although not as low as the next couple’s. After Cher has humiliated herself, Zayn and Perrie do their Turkish Charleston. Zayn is wearing an honest-to-god fez, but they’re awarded three tens and shoot to the top of the leader board (like usual).

It’s this that Harry and Louis are forced to follow, and Harry’s actually feeling the nerves as they take their places on stage. Louis grins at him, though, sticks his tongue out, and it’s relaxing. Their training montage is projected, and then the music starts.

The best way to describe the dance is that it’s pretty. Everything about it is sort of light and airy, from the way they sweep across the dance floor to how the lights trace patterns on the floor. Harry hardly thinks it’s anything ground-breaking, but they don’t make mistakes, and the round of applause is thunderous. As usual, though, Harry feels like the audience must be able to see the physical love beams coming out of his eyes, especially when Louis touches his face, gentle and caring. It’s enough to give anyone butterflies.

The judges aren’t subdued, exactly; it’s more that they’ve resigned themselves to using the same buzzwords whenever Harry and Louis perform. ‘Romantic’, ‘sensual’, ‘loving’, passionate’. Occasionally they’ll get a sentence about technical accuracy or skill.

“How did you feel that went?” Harry’s favourite blonde presenter asks him. The hatred in her eyes continues to be somewhat disconcerting.

“Oh, well, it was nice, y’know. I like the slow dances, they’re great.”

He hasn’t gotten any better at the whole interview thing. They get told to go upstairs to await their scores, and once they’re there Louis kisses him on the corner of the mouth. Harry’s not sure if the cameras catch it (they probably did) but it makes him feel more content, relaxed. He did well. And, cliché as it sounds: all he wants to do is please Louis.

After their scores around announced (nines from Craig and Bruno, tens from Darcey and Len), Katie and her partner jive to _Surfin’ U.S.A._ , and the final couple does the Argentine Tango. Louis whispers, “Not nearly as good as ours” into Harry’s ear, and Harry giggles. He loves how competitive Louis is, even though he claims to think the entire competition is ridiculous. It’s cute, although Harry would never dare tell Louis anything of the sort.

The bottom two is Liam and Cher, which has them both sitting up straighter in their seats. Liam’s been one of the most hard-working people since day one, and though his rhythm’s sometimes off, he makes up for it in control and strength. A collective exhale goes around when it’s him who’s saved by the judges, and even Cher says that she’s glad he got through. They ask her who she think will win, and she goes, “Harry and Louis, definitely. Have you ever seen two people with more chemistry?” Since they’ve barely spoken to Cher at all, they both think it’s nice of her to say.

Once they’re back home, Harry says, “I kind of want to win.”

“You know we can’t,” Louis replies. “We might’ve, if not for the stupid kiss. Sorry.”

“No, I know. I wouldn’t trade that kiss for anything.” He smirks. “Or what happened after. But, you know, I’m just thinking it would’ve been nice. We deserve it.”

“Damn right we do,” Louis says. “But we’ve got to be kicked off at some point. It was worth it anyway.”

“Who do you think it’ll be?”

“Is that a _bet_ , Styles?” Louis says, lips quirking in challenge.

“Maybe,” Harry drawls. “I’m just saying, you’d be mad not to put your money on Zayn and Pez. They’ve been the strongest for weeks.”

“Strongest or not, who knows if the public are sold on Zayn’s personality? It’s definitely between the remaining guys, though. Katie’s the wildcard; no one sees her as a serious contender. It’s between Liam, Niall and Zayn for sure. I’d put my money on Liam.”

“Hmm, and what do I get when I win?”

“Cocky little shit,” Louis says, laughing. “Well, what do you want?”

“I think…maybe you could try on some of my panties,” Harry says shyly, hooking his foot with Louis’. They’re both sitting on the sofa, although the TV is switched off, just enjoying each other’s company. He feels blood rising in his cheeks, embarrassment warring with determination.

“But, Harry, the point of a bet is that I have to do something I don’t _want_ to do,” Louis grins. “You’re pretty when you’re nervous.”

“You really want to do it?” Harry breathes.

“Maybe as a reward, if we get to the final,” Louis says thoughtfully. “I’d like to see what the appeal is.”

“You’d wear them during the show?”

“Of course, darling. Anyway, if I win the bet I want you to put that song that’s under your bed on your next album.”

“What so – no. No, Louis. Oh my god, you _saw_ that?”

“Well, I was looking for your guitar because, what with all the sex, we haven’t written any more of that song, and I wanted to have a go at it. Imagine my surprise when I came across a slip of paper in your guitar case.”

Harry groans.

“It’s quite lovely, really,” Louis says cheerily, clearly enjoying this. “ _I’ve tried playing it cooooool_ ,” he sings, a different tune from what Harry had been imagining, but cute all the same. “ _But when I’m looking at youuuuuu_.”

“You’re such an arse.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re very talented, is that what you wanted to hear? Is it about me?”

“It’s a little bit about you,” Harry admits grudgingly. “Fine, if Liam wins, I’ll approach Julian about putting it on the new album. I hope you’ll be happy when my album crashes and burns because of you.”

“So, what’re your terms?”

“If Zayn wins, you have to…um, feature in one of the songs on the new album.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “If you insist. I did really like the one about the ship, though. We should finish it.”

“Maybe when we’re not practising some new dance every spare minute we’ll give it a go,” Harry says. “You’re were really good at it, Louis, the whole writing thing. And you’ve got a beautiful voice.”

“Okay, okay, you can tone down the compliments. Shall we go to bed?”

“Are you tired?” Harry asks.

“A bit. Sorry, love, I promise I’ll make it up to you in the morning if you wanted to do anything.” Louis winks, and Harry giggles at him.

“I think I’ve seen enough of your dick already this week.”

“Rude. You’ll never see enough of my dick.” Harry laughs at him and pulls him up, leading them both into the bedroom. “Can I be little spoon?” Louis asks softly when they’re climbing into bed. Harry pulls off his t-shirt to hide his fond smile at the sudden softness in Louis’ voice.

“Of course you can,” he says, stripping down to just the pretty pants and scooting into bed beside Louis, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist.

Louis sighs contentedly, body relaxing against Harry’s. “I love this,” he says quietly. “I sort of love you, a bit.”

Harry snorts to off-set how close to tears he suddenly feels. “Romantic,” he says, laugh cracking on happy crying. “I sort of love you too, a bit. Or a lot. I’ve loved you for a while, now.” Louis hums happily and wraps his fingers around Harry’s, tucking a leg back between Harry’s.

“Goodnight, ‘arry.”

“Night, Lou. Love you.”

Louis’ joyful little giggles are the lullaby to which Harry falls asleep.

***

When Harry wakes up, there are lips on his neck and an insistent hand on his crotch.

“Nngh,” he groans, cut off by Louis’ lips on his, soft and wet and slow. Louis keeps palming him through the soft cotton of the panties, swallowing the sounds he’s making because it’s early and he’s too tired for inhibitions. “This is the best way I have ever been woken up,” he says, as Louis shimmies gracefully down his body and pulls the pants down enough that he can get at Harry’s cock, enveloping him in wet heat and going down halfway immediately, giving Harry no time at all the acclimate to the sensation. “ _Shit_ ,” he breathes. “Lou, Louis, oh my god, _please_ …”

“Please what?” Louis asks, pulling off and smirking cheekily. He wraps a small hand around Harry’s dick, slowly pumping him.

“Shut _up_ , Lou, make me _come_ ,” Harry whines, thrusting his hips up.

“Since you asked nicely.” In the few seconds Louis takes Harry into the back of his throat, skin turning pink and eyes turning glassy with unshed tears. He pulls back to lick over the head, twisting his hand along the rest of Harry’s length. “Did you want to come on my face?” he asks casually, tonguing at Harry’s slit.

“Fuck,” Harry hisses. “I – yeah. Yes.”

Louis doubles the speed of his hand and lets his other one drift to Harry’s dry hole, poking around almost experimentally. Harry’s mouth opens on a silent ‘o’ as his hips thrust up of their own accord, sliding his dick back into Louis’ open mouth. Louis’ hands are on his hips immediately, pushing them down hard, and Harry’s only able to blink lazily as Louis works over him, not allowing him to move.

When he comes, maybe only a minute later, Louis is true to his word and lets him do it on his face, white coating his lips and cheeks. He crawls back up to kiss Harry, sharing the taste between them, and all Harry can think is that he wants to lie here forever. He says so.

“Oh, darling,” Louis says, pecking his cheek. “I’d agree with you, but I really need to shower now.”

“I’ll follow you,” Harry promises, but Louis shushes him.

“Get some more sleep, love. I’ll still be here when you wake back up.”

***

They get to work preparing for the quarter final. Not only do they have to learn a new dance (Harry and Louis are doing the Salsa), but they also have to put together a Waltz for the annual Waltz-a-Thon. It’s as lame as it sounds: All of the couples have to be on the dance floor at the same time, waltzing and trying to avoid crashing into one another. They’re ranked from first to sixth, and get a corresponding number of points to boost their place on the leader board. Louis’ mostly focusing on the Waltz, because it’s something Harry is actually good at, whereas he’s struggling with the Salsa.

“No, your upper body – shit, Harry, what is your _posture_? No, don’t go on about your back problems again; I don’t want to hear it. Straighten up.”

The pressure’s not getting to them, as such; it’s more that they’re aware of how close they are to winning. And even bearing in mind the studio’s bizarre fatwa on their victory, it’s still a good feeling to know that they’ve achieved something like this. Ten weeks ago, Harry had no idea of how to dance at all, and now he’s somehow managing to keep up with professionals, scoring highly each week. It’s something of an achievement.

They hit the headlines considerably less, for lack of actually leaving the house. They have a couple of date nights, which mostly feature pizza, bad films, and sex; they also go to Niall’s stand-up show at the Apollo on Tuesday, along with Zayn and Perrie. It’s a private affair, though, and it goes mostly unreported on, aside from a few low quality pictures in _Mizz_ magazine.

“Do you think they’ve gotten over it by now?” Louis asks, when they’re walking to their local Tesco together.

“Why, did you like the attention?” Harry says, grinning.

“Shut up. I just mean, it’s weird, innit. One minute we’re all over the news, next we’re back to normal.”

“Welcome to show business,” Harry says dryly.

“If this is what you’ve had to deal with since you were sixteen, it’s a wonder you haven’t gone off the rails. I know I would’ve.”

“I don’t know – it’s more like you just get used to it, after a while. It just becomes routine, like – go to the shops, get eggs, wave at paparazzi. Most times it’s organised by the management team to keep you relevant, and then…well, when they’re gone, you know you aren’t any more. And you miss them.”

“That’s bullshit,” Louis says. “Sorry, but it – you don’t need to put your value in how many pictures of you there are in the magazine section. You shouldn’t, because that’s not – it’s not real. There are people who love you for you. Those’re the ones who matter.”

“Like you?”

“Yeah, I love you. And my opinion’s the most important, obviously.”

Harry nods solemnly. “Do you want butter or margarine?” he asks.

“That depends. Have we got white or brown bread?”

“We got tiger bread, Lou, because you kept putting it in the basket. God, how did you ever do this on your own? You’ve got the attention span of a toddler.”

“Oh, get the margarine then. Lurpack, not the shitty Clover stuff. Ooh, can we get brownie mix? I’ve been craving those since Wednesday.”

“Babe, it is Wednesday.”

“I know, but I’ve been craving them since at least four hours ago.”

***

Harry ends up making the brownies, while Louis licks the chocolate out of the bowl. He even ices them nicely with hearts and things, which go wasted because Louis devours nearly half of the batch in roughly thirty seconds flat.

“These are _so good_ ,” he says with his mouth full. “Oh my god, I used to make these but they never turned out quite right. What is your secret?”

“You literally just add water. I don’t even know how one would _have_ a secret for that.”

“Look at you, thinking you’re all better than me because you know how to make brownies. I’ll have you know that my cookies are divine. And I dance better than you.”

“Wow, low blow. I’ve always really taken pride in my dancing.” Harry struggles to make his voice more monotone than it is naturally. Louis seems to sense the sarcasm anyway, stepping on his foot. “How about we watch _Dirty Dancing_ tonight?” he suggests, as appeasement. Louis loves teasing people, but gets vicious when teased in return. Not quite in a bad way, but in a way that leaves you wishing – two hours after the fact – that you could’ve just kept your quip to yourself.

“Fine, Haz. But if you blubber all over me, I’ll make cookies and waft the smell all through the house, and then I won’t let you have a single one. That’s a promise.”

They curl up on the sofa with a bottle of wine between them and a bowl filled with the remaining brownies, and Harry wings along to every song on the soundtrack, making Louis pinch him in the thigh repeatedly. “Stop it, Curly,” he gripes. “You may be good, but you’re no Patrick Swayze.”

“Lies,” Harry says easily. “Yesterday you said my voice sounded like a host of angels.”

“You were singing along to Katy Perry.”

“You can’t take it back now.”

Harry manages to belt out every song, until it gets to _(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life_ , and Louis covers his mouth with both hands, pre-emptively, as well as sitting on his stomach to make sure that Harry is incapable of producing any sound whatsoever.

“You’re the worst,” Harry says, when the song’s over and he learns what it is to breathe again. “I hate you.”

Louis giggles, forgoing the glasses and taking a swig straight from the wine bottle. “You’re cute.”

Harry puffs up indignantly before he registers that, technically, that’s a compliment, and he’s forced to just kiss off Louis’ stupid grin instead.

***

Their Salsa is to _Work_ , by Kelly Rowland, so Harry gets a glittery purple outfit complete with a purple bow for his hair, and Louis gets to go shirtless. For some reason. Harry may have recommended it, very strongly. There are a lot of random props which don’t make much sense, if they’re being honest, but have something to do with the title of the song if no other part of it. At one point, Harry is ‘welding’, with a sparkly mask. It’s great.

“I swear your favourite part of this whole thing is picking the outfits,” Louis says.

“Of course it is. And getting to make you go out in front of the entire country half-naked is an added bonus.”

“For god’s sake, Harry, the entire country doesn’t watch this shit.”

Harry sticks his tongue out at him and sing-songs, “People are gonna see your booooobs.”

“You are utterly insufferable.”

***

The first act on Saturday is Aiden, dancing the American Smooth to a Michael Bublé, and Louis declares it to be the cheesiest thing he’s ever witnessed, and he’s been doing the show for three years. Then it’s Zayn and Perrie with an unbeatable Argentine Tango which only loses them a single point (from Craig, of course). They’re followed by Geneva’s Cha Cha to Love Shack, and it’s such an explosion of pink that Louis groans, “I was wrong. _This_ is the cheesiest. Oh god, why do I do this show?”

Liam dances a Foxtrot that earns him the lowest score of the night (joint with Aiden) just before Niall does an insane, circus-themed Charleston which propels him to second place on the leader board, sitting comfortably just below Zayn.

Harry and Louis are last, and – in their defense – they have a lot of fun. It’s a fun dance, and Harry can’t bring himself to regret a moment of it. It’s a bit sloppier than they’ve been of late, admittedly, but it’s nothing unseemly and the audience, as usual, is fully in support of them. The judges, though, have been told to start coming down harder on them, without appearing suspicious, so that hopefully their score when combined with the public vote will get Harry and Louis booted out of the competition, or at least in the bottom two.

So they end up with two eights and two nines, which is hardly a terrible score, but it does mean that they’re at the bottom of the leader board, and therefore in the most danger. The blonde presenter looks almost gleeful.

“How does it feel, knowing you might be going home this week?”

Louis takes the question. “We might go home every week. But, let’s face it, the public love us.” He throws a wink to the audience, and they scream. He’s very scream-worthy at the moment, Harry notes. His chest is covered in sweat in the best possible way, in a way that makes it glow, like an after-sex sheen, and his hair is artfully disheveled, drooping over one eye. Harry might be biased, but he thinks anyone would be mad not to want to ravish him right there and then. “I think we’ll be fine,” Louis adds cheekily. “But don’t forget to vote, you lot at home!”

The presenter’s glare reminds Harry of the time in school when they’d watched _The Snow Queen_. She is no longer nearly so bubbly.

They still have the Waltz-a-Thon to go, though, and Louis squeezes his hand and mutters tips about posture and footwork that Harry’s already heard about a hundred times this week. After a short break to change into their traditional tuxes – Harry in white and Louis in black – they take their places on the dance floor, almost shoulder to shoulder with Zayn and Perrie.

“Ready?” Louis murmurs.

“Always,” Harry smiles back at him.

They end up coming fourth, but the dance does boost their rank on the leader board, making it so that Geneva is the one at the bottom. Harry almost feels a bit bad for her: she’s already been in the bottom two, and is the last remaining woman of the contestants. Even though she still hasn’t stopped glaring at him and Louis since the whole betting debacle, he thinks he’ll miss her.

And it does become quite certain that she’s on the chopping board, as soon as they’re lined up and the presenter – already aware of the vote count – looks sulky. Louis and Harry are safe.

Sure enough, the bottom two is made up of Aiden and Geneva. The rest of the contestants are allowed to go backstage and watch the anti-climactic dance off on the screen in the green room. Both couples are fairly equally matched, and the judges end up in voting deadlock. Len has the casting vote, so Geneva is sent packing. It’s not particularly dramatic, but they get served champagne for making it to the semi-final and everyone stays long enough that they’re pleasantly tipsy as they pile out into their respective taxis.

When they’re in theirs, Louis squeezes up close even though there are three seats in the back, and whispers, “I want you to fuck me tonight.” Harry squeezes his eyes shot for a moment in order to get a handle on himself, breath stuttering.

“Yes,” he says softly, thinking about how lovely Louis has been tonight, how full of bright energy and sass and just the right amount of pliancy.

Louis rests his head on Harry’s shoulder for the rest of the ride home, breathing slowing to a gentle ebb and flow – not sleeping, but right on the edge. He stumbles against Harry as they get out of the car, giggly and lovely. He’s wearing an oversized grey jumper with the leggings that he’d thrown on once they were forced out of their tuxes.

“Do you want a drink?” Harry asks, once they’re inside.

“Don’t have to seduce me, Styles.”

“Not trying to. Know you’re mine,” Harry smiles at him, and Louis smiles back, eyes twinkling. They haven’t dwelt on this – labeling themselves – but there’s something unspoken between them that this is serious.

Over the past few weeks, they’ve been having a lot of sex, objectively. They’re hardly going at it every minute, but the chance to explore each other’s bodies has proven to be too much on several occasions, and they’ve given sloppy blowjobs in changing rooms and toilets on set, and have spent a lot of time at home exchanging handjobs under blankets and making out until they’re lazily rutting against each other, gasping into each other’s mouth. When it’s gone further, it’s been obvious that Louis likes having a modicum of control in that department (just like in everything else he does). He likes pinning Harry down and making him desperate, likes teasing him and taking from him until he can’t give any more. And Harry’s had fingers up Louis’ arse, has let Louis ride his face – but the prospect of actually _fucking_ him has him a little light-headed. He needs a drink.

He grabs a beer from the fridge and gulps down half of the bitter liquid before setting down the bottle and reaching for Louis’ hand. “C’mon,” he says, leading the other man into the bedroom. Louis grins as Harry bends down to take off his shoes for him, muttering something that sounds a lot like, “My personal slave.” Harry pinches him on the ankle before kissing over it.

“Get your kit off, then,” he says.

Louis hesitates momentarily before shedding the jumper, sitting down on the bed and looking up at Harry. “Go on, level the playing field.”

Harry swoops down to kiss him, catching his mouth in a dirty mess of tongues and wet lips, settling one hand in the hair at the back of Louis’ head and trailing the other down his chest, tweaking a nipple and making his abs tense. “Think I wanna get you naked first,” he says, shifting them both backwards on the bed. Louis is lying beneath him, eyelids drooping over lust-blown eyes, chewing on his pink lower lip. Harry reaches under the waistband of the leggings, pulling them down to Louis’ knees along with his pants. Louis shudders when he’s fully exposed, lying under a fully-clothed Harry.

“G’on,” he slurs. “Do something.”

“With pleasure,” Harry grins, wrapping a hand around Louis’ cock and giving it a few pumps. It’s on its way to full hardness already, and Harry presses a fond kiss to the tip before he crawls over the bedside table to get out the half empty lube and a condom. “You sure about this?” he says gently, brushing a dry finger over Louis’ hole where the man has taken his place with his legs open, knees up by his chest.

“Just get on with it, Styles, god,” Louis says. “You fuck as slow as you talk.”

“Not fucking you yet.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Harry pecks the corner of his mouth as he slicks up his fingers, stroking gently over Louis’ hole, getting it wet with lube before he pushes one finger inside, trying to help Louis’ body accustom to the intrusion by kissing his shaking thighs. “Get on with it,” Louis says. “I can take it, go on.”

Sucking a bruise into his thigh as a reprimand, Harry starts pumping his finger in and out, slowly, listening carefully to the hitches in Louis’ breath. He waits another minute before tucking another finger inside, scissoring his body open and crooking his fingers until he find that spot that’s just right. When he does, Louis whines high in his throat, tries to grind back on Harry’s fingers and get them deeper. There’s sweat crystalizing all over his skin, and his moans fall on Harry’s ears like music.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry says conversationally, as he adds another finger. Louis has to turn his head to bite down on his bicep, grunting and thrusting his hips down to meet Harry’s fingers slow pump in and out.

“Please,” Louis says, voice entirely wrecked. “Please, need you to…fuck me, god, need you in me.”

Harry never thought hearing someone beg could sound so good, but he can’t comply fast enough. He tears open the condom packet and rolls it on with shaking fingers, lubing himself up before lining himself up and edging inside, cautious and slow. “Okay?” he asks.

“’m fine,” Louis slurs, eyes blissful.

Harry hoists him up by the bum so he can slide inside the entire way. They both exhale at the same time as Harry begins to move, with languid thrusts that punch drawn-out sounds from Louis’ bitten lips. “More…need, more, fuck.” Louis’ shaking slightly, thrumming with pleasure. His cheeks are flushed and the pink runs down to his chest, where one of his hands is playing with his own nipple. Harry leans down to replace the fingers with his mouth, and Louis arches up, moan stuttering. “Touch me, g’on,” he demands.

Harry bites down on his nipple once before pulling back and wrapping a hand around Louis’ cock, fucking him in time with pulling him off. Every muscle in Louis seems to tense as he tries to stave off his orgasm, and Harry kisses him with a murmured, “Come for me” and he’s losing it. His face goes lax and he slumps backwards as his orgasm takes over him, Harry fucking him through it. Once he’s recovered from the aftershocks, and Harry has pulled out to prevent him getting to sensitive, Louis snorts and pushes Harry down, perching atop him and sinking down on his cock again. He makes a slight face at the discomfort of the oversensitivity, but within seconds he’s riding Harry in earnest, thighs shaking with the effort and fringe flopping into his eyes.

“Wanna get you off,” he says, and it doesn’t take long before Harry’s coming, too, filling up the condom and clutching on to Louis forearm for life support. Louis gets off him gingerly, scooping his hand through the mess on his own stomach. He looks a little bit out of it, and once Harry has removed the condom and discarded of it, he can’t help but want to take advantage of it.

“D’you think you could come again?”

Louis’ eyes widen a little, and he touches his fingertips to his dick. “Sensitive,” he moans, shying away.

“I know, love. D’you want me to eat you out?”

Louis blinks lazily and nods, turning around on his belly and lifting up onto his forearms and knees.

“Lovely,” Harry says appreciatively, placing a hand on one of Louis arse cheeks, squeezing. Louis’ head falls between his shoulders and he whines. Harry leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to Louis’ gaping, twitching hole before licking over it, feeling the entire body spasm that rolls through Louis’ body. He’s a wonderful mixture of relaxed and tense, taking whatever Harry gives him with appreciative sounds. As Harry dips his tongue inside after wetting him up, he hears Louis’ voice hitch on a sob, and he pulls back, alarmed.

“Don’t stop. ‘m just overwhelmed,” Louis tells him, all traces of authority gone from his voice. “More, please.”

Harry licks him out until his jaw feels sore with it, and then some more. Louis’ dick perks up again with interest, and Harry gently pulls his boy down so that he can rut against the sheets for some fiction. When he comes for the second time, it sounds like all the breath has been punched out of him, and his eyes are glassy with tears.

Harry rushes off to get him a flannel, wiping him down and stroking his hair back from him face. “You okay, babe?” he asks, running his hands over Louis’ hot, flushed skin.

“I love you,” Louis responds. “God, that was… I want to do that _all the time_.”

“I love you so much, too,” Harry smiles, kissing his hair. “You can go to sleep now. I love you.”

“You’ve said,” Louis laughs lightly. Within seconds he’s snoring softly, breath whistling through his mouth and limbs tangled up with Harry’s.

***

With only five couples left in the semi-final and two dances to perform each, Harry feels like he’s started spending most of his time in a dancing studio that smells almost exclusively of his own sweat. Louis is back to barking our orders and pulling Harry around, occasionally yelling at him to maybe not hump the air. “It’s more of a sensual hip roll, Harry, see if you can do it that way.”

They’ve got a Rumba and a Viennese Waltz to prepare for: a Rumba to _Somewhere Only We Know_ , and the Waltz to _When a Man Loves a Woman_. Because, irony. Louis’ impressed with him, overall, even though he seems to have reached his peak and stuck at it. He simply can’t improve from being the boy who stumbles over his own feet if left unsupervised for more than ten seconds. And then there’s the fact that, whatever they do, the judges will be giving them the lowest score possible. Which is a lot of pressure, considering.

Their Rumba is better by a thread, because it’s the one they’ve done already. The Viennese Waltz takes a bit longer to acclimate to, but Harry thinks he’s doing okay. Probably.

It’s sort of all consuming, and one or two nights people are caught trying to pull an all-nighter, only to get kicked out of the building by annoyed caretakers. This happens to Niall and Liam – Niall because he was hopped up on Red Bull and genuinely thought he could go all night, Liam because he’s really taking this whole thing far too seriously.

Louis develops a system on Thursday whereby Harry only gets to sleep in the same bed if he can do a perfect run-through of whatever section they’ve been practicing. It’s foolproof.

***

Niall and Jade are first up, dancing a fairly disastrous Cha-Cha to _Boogie Shoes_. Craig gives them a six. Everyone else gives them an eight, because the dance was fun (as usual) and also because they _really_ want Harry and Louis out of the competition. It’s looking more and more like they might win. They included a same-sex couple for inclusivity and it’s turned into a monster. An adorable, rainbow-spewing monster.

Straight after them, it’s Harry and Louis’ go, and their Rumba is quite lovely, if Harry says so himself. They both wear white, they spend quite a lot of time of the floor, or dragging each other about, and it’s as sensual as Louis wanted it. Perfect.

The judges, of course, do not agree. Spewing some bullshit, they gang up to give them a total score of thirty-four (Bruno, their biggest fan, perseveres in giving them a ten). Louis defiantly pecks Harry on the lips when the woman on the balcony asks them how they made the dance so full of feeling. “Teamwork,” he says, while Harry looks dazed.

Liam and Leigh-Anne’s Viennese Waltz is a hit, although it scores slightly lower than Harry and Louis. Louis teases Liam about this consistently throughout the rest of the proceedings. He’s discovered that Liam is the perfect target for teasing now that Harry just smiles fondly and kisses him instead of objecting, and is taking intense pleasure in torturing him by pointing out every single mistake in their dance, step by step. He’s making it all up, of course, but Liam still has on his sad dog face. Harry feels rather sorry for him, but he’s no more capable of reigning Louis in than the next mortal.

Aiden’s dance (in all honesty, Harry had stopped paying attention to him) is received with mixed scores, ranging from a six to a nine. He’s never managed to stop being a little stiff, and he looks worried as he takes his seat next to Perrie.

The last dance of the first round is from Zayn and Perrie, who pretty much blow it out the park. Well, their score is only thirty-five, but that’s still higher than anyone else. Perrie talks about what a humbling experience the competition has been while Zayn looks smug enough for the both of them. They’re a pretty good team.

They get a break in between their dances while the judges show off their dancing ability, and so Harry gets changed into his glittery pink shirt and rainbow feather boa while Louis rolls his eyes at him. “I cannot believe we’re doing this,” he says.

Louis’ hair has grown out somewhat during the show, so Harry ties it back for him in a rainbow ribbon (so that they match, obviously) and he’s done something almost unheard of on _Strictly_ , and ditched the formalwear. He’s in leggings and a black t-shirt featuring skeleton hands and a rainbow, because he says it makes him feel slightly more manly. Harry has chosen to accept that social constructs of masculinity hold a limited amount of control over his boyfriend’s actions, not just because the outfit makes him look adorable. Plus, he’s wearing eyeliner again, so all can be forgiven. It’s winged, as well. Harry considers changing their song to _Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You_.

They file back out after the judges have had their moment, and the clips of them evaluating each act have been played to the gawping audience. Up first again is Niall, with an Argentine Tango to _The 5 th_. The performance is stunning – earns them two nines and two tens – and Niall jumps on Zayn once it’s finished, giving him a bit of a snog. Harry hopes the cameras catch it, because he’s eager to not be the only one who’s been penalized for “inappropriate public actions between contestants”. As it is, it’s just mostly cute and a little bit gross.

Then it’s Harry and Louis’ second go, with the audience reacting appropriately to their outfits (especially the return of the feather boa).

In a possibly problematic contrast to their interpretation of it, the Viennese Waltz is actually meant to be a pretty serious sort of dance. They give it their all, though, which is what counts, and the audience is in fits of laughter over the juxtaposition of the song and the two guys dancing to it. Harry even starts belting it out in the middle: “ _When a maaaaaaaan loves a womaaaaaan!_ ” He makes sure to gesture at Louis while singing ‘woman’, if only to get him to giggle and blow a kiss. Plausibly, the dance itself is actually a bit of a mess. Or, at the very least, slightly improvised. It’s still _good_ , though. Harry knows it’s good.

Their scores, predictably, are a bit shit. A seven from Craig and eights from the rest. They say something about technical accuracy, but Harry stopped listening to them a long time ago.

After them is Liam, who beats their score by a while and then says nothing about it, because he’s just a really nice person. Harry thinks maybe a little too nice for his own good. Sometimes Louis could do with a little defiance. He’s followed by Aiden, who inexplicably gets two nines and two tens, hoisting him up to second on the leader board – until Zayn and Perrie perform and absolutely slay him. They get four tens for an unbelievably good Salsa, and Harry has to jump up and hug them both just because he’s so proud. Something to do with the atmosphere, he thinks. And also how Zayn looks happy. Zayn deserves to always look that happy.

In the end, Harry and Louis realize they’re on pretty shaky ground. As in, they’re right at the bottom of the leader board. When this is announced, the audience boo, which says something for brand loyalty, but Harry hasn’t forgotten that if they can just get through to the next round, Louis will be wearing women’s underwear. That’s far too much for him to just give in without a fight (he considers that Louis might just do it anyway, if Harry asks nicely, but dismisses that thought). There’s a tense wait before the results show starts to be filmed, during which they sit in silence and Louis drums his fingers on Harry’s thigh. Harry plays with Louis’ hair, still in its ribbon, until they’re pulled into the wardrobe department and forced to change into the traditional results show tuxes.

“You’ll be fine,” Caroline says, kindly. They nod at her and say thank you for all that she’s done, because they’re both pretty sure that this is it.

The wait for the results to be read out is the tensest it’s ever been. They have to wait through Paloma Faith performing, too many interviews and backstage clips, until finally they’re ushering under spotlights that will go out one by one as they’re told if they’re through to the final or not.

“Zayn Malik!” the presenter says, to no one’s surprise. Perrie kisses Zayn full on the lips. Harry, again, pouts at the fact that no one will tell _them_ off (except the tabloids, who will run seven hundred stories about Zayn cheating on Niall until Zayn is forced to sit down for an interview in which he explains the concepts of both pansexuality and polygamy in loving, consensual relationships – and how both of these things are not mutually inclusive, you ignorant fucks). Louis squeezes his hand as if he knows what he’s thinking, and they’re both looking at each other with moony eyes when the woman calls out:

“Harry Styles!”

“Holy shi – ” Harry cuts Louis off by kissing him before he can actually get them disqualified for vulgarity on a pre-watershed BBC production. He wonders if this will become compulsory for every couple that gets through (of which there is only one left, of course). He’s rooting for Liam having to kiss Leigh-Anne.

The presenter looks, once again, entirely murderous. It’s entirely worth it.

“And, finally…” The beating heart soundtrack starts playing. Tension. “…Aiden Grimshaw!”

Aiden looks as surprised as the rest of them feel: he’s never really developed much of a following from the public, at least not in the same way that Niall has. Everyone agrees that it was probably the judges’ score that tided him over to the next week. He’s not a bad person, obviously; him and Louis have spent some time together in the break room, and he’s a lot more relaxed off camera. But they all know who they would’ve rather seen in the final out of him, Liam and Niall.

For the dance off, Niall and Jade give it their best with their Cha-Cha, taking on board all of their comments from earlier. It’s still not great, from a skilled point of view, but Niall gives it everything he’s got, and the enthusiasm is infectious. In contrast, Liam and Leigh-Anne do their slow, emotional Rumba. Harry’s always been of the opinion that, when performing, Liam is rather emotionless, and the same is true now. He’s obviously not a natural actor, and his chemistry with Leigh-Anne isn’t as natural as it could be.

“Who d’you think?” Louis asks softly, arm wrapped around Harry’s waist.

“I know it’s awful to say, but I hope Niall gets through,” Harry whispers. “He’s just really fun. Brings the humor, which is what this show needs more of, if you ask me.”

Louis nods. “It’ll be Liam, though. The judges love a sportsman, especially one who works as hard as Liam does. And, if we’re talking about who _deserves_ to get through…”

“You’re so much nicer to him when he’s not here.”

“I have a reputation to uphold, Styles.”

Predictably, Craig votes to save Liam, giving an impassioned little speech about ‘respecting the dance’, which Darcey and Bruno go for Niall, citing the fact that he ‘adds fun to the competition’ and ‘makes every dance his own’. The deciding vote is Len’s, and with a grave face he saves Liam from elimination. Niall takes it well, with a grim smile and a little bow for the audience. They let Zayn go out to give him a long, lingering hug, telling him how great he was just loud enough for the camera to pick up. If there’s one thing going for this series of _Strictly_ , Harry thinks, it’s the romance.

Then they’re all on the dance floor, passing Niall and Jade around for hugs. They’ve become something of a family over the course of the competition, as cliché as it sounds. They’ve been spending so much time together that it’s easy to forget that they’re competing.

Liam tries to apologize so much that he has to be physically pulled away by Leigh-Anne, and Niall incorporates the Macarena into his leaving dance.

***

“We’re through to the final,” Harry says when they get home, grabbing some leftover salad from the fridge. He’s barely eaten since lunch – nerves – and honestly feels like he could devour a horse. He considers popping down to Tesco.

“That we are.” Louis flops down on the sofa and turns on the highlights of the day’s footie. “It’s weird, thinking I’ll be doing this again next year, with someone who’s not you. I might actually get someone who has a working sense of balance.”

“Shut up, you’ll make me jealous,” Harry deadpans. “Hey, since we’ll get eliminated this week whatever we do, ‘cos it’s judges’ choice, how about we do something fun. Like, go on a proper date.”

“Harold Styles. Are you implying that I haven’t gone on a proper date with you? We have been _ballroom dancing_. The most romantic of all the dates. And I have _wined and dined_ you. Tell me I am not the best dater you have ever dated.”

“Um. We’re literally on a show for ballroom dancing,” Harry points out. “And I sort of coerced you into dinner dates, by appealing to your competitive nature. And then you said those weren’t dates anyway.”

“Shut up, Styles.”

“Um, so. We could do, like, an official dating activity. We could go to the cinema. Or on the London Eye. Or a romantic getaway to France.”

“How about we start with the cinema and work our way up?”

“Fine. What do you wanna go see? And I refuse to allow you to take me to the weird one with the explosions in the trailer, and that poor objectified woman in the transparent dress. What is the point in a dress if it’s entirely transparent, Lou?” Harry has been ranting about this trailer to everyone he knows since he first saw it. None of them have been very sympathetic to his anger.

“Why on earth would you think I want to see that?” Louis asks. “I think _Black Panther_ is still on. Can we see that?”

“Really? Marvel?”

“What’s your problem with Marvel?”

“It’s just…so, unbelievably romantic.”

“I can still take you to the new Adam Sandler one. Is that what you want?”

Harry ends up agreeing.

***

They see the film on Tuesday, after trying to decide on their Showdance for Saturday (a dance which is supposed to show of the best of their ability, drawing from different styles of dance) for an entire 48 hours. Louis literally woke Harry about at midnight asking him about how he’d feel about the incorporation of thrusting. Harry did indeed end up thrusting, but only because Louis had in fact interrupted a rather nice dream he’d been having. As for the question of whether it would be in the same, that remained unanswered.

“We should dance to one of my songs,” Harry suggests. “Like _Happily_. I love that song. The audience would go wild for it.”

“We’re meant to be on a date,” Louis points out. They’re halfway through the line for popcorn.

“Fine,” Harry says. “But you know I’m right.”

Louis does eventually decide to set the Showdance to _Happily_ , while Harry is sucking him off. Later, he says he can’t be held accountable. Harry reminds him that they didn’t _have_ to leave halfway through the film to have a quickie in the toilets, but it wasn’t _him_ who’d suggested it. Louis acquiesces.

Another decision of the week is what panties Louis should wear. Louis insists that they should be aquamarine, to go with his eyes; Harry wants to colour-coordinate with their outfits. It’s very important to him.

“Okay, hear me out,” Louis says. “If you let me do blue, I will wear a full set. I mean garter belt, stockings – I will wear a bra if that’s your thing.”

“What about black with blue accents?”

“Why are we debating this? You’d think you’d just accept me putting on racy underwear for you.”

“I just think you’d look so nice in pink,” Harry says. “Pink and black.”

“We’ll save that for your birthday, love.”

***

Harry meant to surprise Louis with the panties, but he’d underestimated how much of a control freak Louis would be about it. He keeps sending Louis links to different pairs he likes (while they’re on opposite ends of the sofa with feet tangled between them) and Louis vetoes pretty much every pair. He comes up with really good excuses, too, like: “How would I even fit my dick in there?”, “What’s even the point if it’s a thong?” and “It doesn’t offer easy access to my arsehole, Haz, I don’t know why you’re wasting my time.”

They eventually decide on a pair made of light blue lace, white bows running down the back, paired with sheer gold stockings that are held up easily by the meat of Louis’ thighs. Or, so Harry is told. He’s not allowed to see them before Saturday.

Meanwhile, their Showdance is coming along nicely, even though it gets considerably more sexual each time they do it. If they go out, they’re going out with a bang. Harry feels like he hasn’t properly appreciated how curvy Louis is before, how he can work that to his utmost advantage, rolling hips and hanging off Harry with his body swaying and writhing. Since Louis has banned Harry from wearing knickers (“it’s _my_ turn, don’t be selfish”) he has no option except to wear the tightest boxers he owns and pray. He knows Louis is endlessly amused by the effect he can have on Harry by a few well-aimed shakes of his arse. That doesn’t make the affliction any less serious, in his opinion.

Their other dance, if they get through the first round, is a repeat of their _El Tango de Roxanne_. Because why the fuck not. Louis has told him he won’t be repeating the kiss at the end, but Harry thinks there’s hope.

They go on a double date on Friday, with Zayn and Niall, to catch up with them and to congratulate Zayn on his explosive interview on sexuality.

“They made me look like the fuckin’ scorned woman,” Niall complains. “It was ridiculous. I’ve got so much comedy material from the reporters camped outside that I’ll never have to think of anything else for a gig ever again.”

“How did you deal with it?” Zayn says. “They won’t fuck off, no matter how much we tell them to.”

“I had to go to court,” Harry says. “If not, they’ll get bored soon enough. Not if you win, which is obviously what’s gonna happen. They’ll be around for a while, poking around for cracks in your relationship. But you guys’ll be fine.”

“I mean, people cared about my personal life before,” Zayn says, “but when I first publically announced I was with Niall, they assumed I was gay, and I didn’t bother to correct them. It was just easier.”

***

On Saturday, Louis refuses to change in front of Harry, and Harry is almost vibrating with anticipation. He actually just wants to get the show over with so that he can just get eliminated and go home to whatever Louis has planned for him. His eyes go a bit glassy with it and when they go out to sit on the balcony, Louis digs his finger into his thigh and hisses, “Focus.”

Harry tries, he does, and he trains his eyes unblinkingly on what’s going on on the dance floor. First up is Aiden, who gets two nines and two tens for his Showdance. It really does show off the best of him. This round, whoever gets the lowest score from the judges goes home, and in the next round, third place is decided by the voting public, and then the winner by the judges again. After Aiden, it’s Liam and Leigh-Anne, who dance to _Don’t Stop Me Now_ (somewhat ironically, as they’re hardly the favourites to win) and give it all the energy they’ve got. It garners them a disappointing thirty-five as their total score, putting them three points behind Aiden.

Third to go is Zayn and Perrie, who absolutely stun the audience, there’s no other way of putting it. They’re the best dancers by a mile, and despite the scandal, there’s no denying that they’re the clear winners. Even without the support of Daily Mail readers, Harry knows they can pull through.

They’re on last, with their sexually frustrating dance to _Happily_. They’ve pulled out all the stops, and Louis is once again in leggings, with a simple white shirt long enough that it covers his panty-line. Harry, meanwhile, gets a floral shirt open almost to his naval with the usual dress trousers, and shimmering gold boots. He thinks he looks good. Louis has repeatedly told him he’s never looked worse.

The dance goes on without a hitch, although Louis looks like personified sin, and the mood is so infectious that Harry can’t stop smiling, not even feeling the effort it takes to lift Louis into a backwards walk over his shoulder. It’s a risky move: Harry has to hold Louis up with one arm, flipping him through the air slowly over his shoulder. It takes an immense amount of effort on Louis’ part, too, holding his body taut, but it looks so impressive that the cheer that goes up almost deafens them, drowning out the song for a moment. Louis crowds in on him from behind, placing his hand so low on Harry’s stomach it’s basically his crotch and swaying them together for a second before he spins Harry around, grabbing the back of his neck as the song finishes. Harry has to drop his head to Louis’ neck to resist kissing him and the thunderous applause rings out.

They earn themselves a nine from Craig and tens from the rest, and then it’s announced that, as a result, Liam is going home. He actually looks very genuinely disappointed about it, but he wishes them all luck and refuses to pick a favourite.

They have a break – Harry drinks about a gallon of water – and get changed , Louis into full black: shirt tucked into trousers, and Harry wearing white suit with a black bowtie. It’s thematic, or something, adding to the drama of the dance. Each couple dances their favourite dance from the series: Aiden doing a Paso Doble that Harry can’t even remember watching, and Zayn blowing it out of the water with his Charleston. Aiden loses a single point; Zayn gets full marks.

As Harry and Louis take their places, Harry thinks somewhat distantly that this is their final dance together. This is the end of the competition, whether they win or not. He almost can’t believe it, almost wants to go back to the beginning of it all and do it all over again. He’s unsure about the rules on competing more than once, but guesses it’s frowned upon.

Louis twitches a smile at him as the music starts up, and then they’re moving like muscle memory. The night they first performed this is forever etched in Harry’s memory, and it’s all too easy to recreate the steps, with his feelings for Louis even yet more intense, in a way that must mean they’re visible all too clearly to the audience. There’s silence throughout the dance, like a collective held breath, and it’s so simple, the way they move like they’re orbiting each other, drawn in by a force stronger than gravity. When it’s over, Louis grins at him, sharp-toothed, silently bragging that he managed not to lose control and snog Harry senseless again. He does squeeze Harry’s bum, though, apparently just because he can, making Harry go bright red while the audience laughs, the spell broken.

The get four tens, well-deserved, and Louis leaps into Harry’s arms just like that, kissing his neck and telling him he’s proud of him.

***

The public vote Aiden off, and when the two remaining couples stand in front of the judges, spotlights on them, Louis reaches out to hold Zayn’s hand while Perrie grabs for Harry’s. Unlike most of these reality shows, they refuse to present anything less than a united front.

“We’ve loved having both of you on the show,” Len Goodman, head judge, tells them solemnly. “Let’s go over your best bits.”

On the screens is shown a montage of footage for both of the couples, of their first meeting to their first dance to – for Harry and Louis – their first kiss, and some of their best interviews. As Harry watches, he’s fighting off tears, and he finally lets go when they show the backstage interviews from the first week, when he was first filled with infatuation for the amazing man he now gets to call his boyfriend. Louis seems torn between laughing at him and crying with him, eventually just separating from Zayn so that he can wrap Harry up in a hug and tell him how much he loves him.

Once the tape has stopped rolling, Harry gets asked why he’s so emotional, and he only manages to say, “It’s like – it’s like falling in love all over again.”

***

They get voted off, of course, unanimously, with the audience cheering and booing in equal measure. Everyone’s thrilled for Zayn and Perrie, of course, but it was Harry and Louis’ love story that dominated this series of _Strictly Come Dancing_.

“I love you so much,” Louis says as soon as they’re backstage. “I am so, so glad that you were my partner this year.”

“And I’m so glad that you’ll probably be my partner next year,” Harry jokes.

Louis looks at him. “I’m trying to be sweet, but that was terrible. God, that was awful. It wasn’t even funny, you were just being a sap. Fine, I want to be your partner forever, or at least your partner for a couple more years and then your husband. Does that make you happy?”

“Very,” Harry says, leaning in to steal a kiss.

“Good, because I was thinking it might’ve been a bit too soon for declarations of that sort,” Louis breathes.

“Nah, I wanna marry you in Venice.” Harry kisses the corner of his lips again, reaching round to tuck his fingers under the waistband of his trousers, stroking along the lace of the pants. Louis made a soft noise.

“Oh yeah, talk matrimony to me,” he says, half-joking. “You thought about it?”

“Loads,” Harry replies. He’s just licking into Louis’ mouth when Louis pulls away, slapping his arse lightly.

“We’ve got to get home before you start dry humping me, loser,” he says. “C’mon.”

They end up making out in the back of the taxi, which means Harry has to pay an extortionate tip as an apology for the possibly scarring wet sucking noises, and they barely manage to get through door before Harry is undoing Louis’ trousers, pulling them off while leaving on the tank top that Louis had shoved on when getting quickly changed (alone). He’s so unbelievably pretty that Harry sort of wants to melt, dropping to his knees immediately. The gold-toned stockings cling to Louis’ muscular legs, leading all the way up to where the blue lace is clinging to his slightly sweaty skin, contrasting gorgeously with its faint tan.

He makes a soft sound, bringing his hands up to touch the skin between the knickers and the stockings, unable to help a gasp when he finds it hairless. Louis’ thighs start quivering after a moment, and he says, “In the bedroom. ‘ve got plans.”

He leads Harry through the house, and Harry considers that he looks almost even better from the back. His bum is always something of a masterpiece, but with cute bows lining his crack and the fabric barely covering a quarter of each arse cheek, Harry feels as though he could start drooling any moment. “Lou…” he says.

“Shh, baby. I’d really like to ride your face, is that alright?”

He turns around when they reach the bedroom door just in time to see how Harry’s expression turns wanton, eyes heavy-lidded and pink spots bright on his cheeks. “Please,” he says.

“Okay, love, just lie down on the bed, there you go.” Harry complies easily, limbs lax as Louis takes off his t-shirt and jeans discarding them on the floor and kissing Harry’s lips gently. He places a pillow under Harry’s head as the kiss turns more heated, tongue slick against one another. Louis starts thrusting his hips down to meet Harry’s, rubbing their clothed cocks together. Once Harry is panting and moaning, writhing against the sheets, Louis pulls off and sits with his knees on either side of Harry’s face, placing his hands on the headboard.

“Think about your tongue all the time,” Louis says as he lowers himself enough that Harry can lick at his hole through the lace, eager and helpless. “Think about how eager you’ll be – oh, fuck, keep going.”

Harry’s all too pleased to comply, bring his hands up to shift the lace to the side, holding Louis’ cheeks open so that he has easier access, licking over Louis’ hole in wide stripes, getting him wet and dripping. There’s saliva almost down Harry’s chin, and he feels dirty and used all at once, completely smothered by Louis’ arse. His hips are bucking up against thin air, desperate for some relief on his aching cock. He whimpers against Louis’ bum, overwhelmed. Louis’ starts shaking when he points his tongue and dips inside, crying out at the feel of Harry’s hands digging in to the meat of his arse.

“God, fuck…Harry, baby, you’re doing so good, letting me use you… _fuck_ …”

Harry makes a helpless mewling sound and intensifies his efforts, licking in tight circles around Louis’ rim. Louis hasn’t moved, yet, has kept mostly motionless while Harry works over him, but now he grinds his hips down, and starts forcing Harry’s tongue deeper, making him work harder. Harry almost can’t breathe, and it’s so good, having Louis just taking what he needs from him, legs shaking from the strain and sounds rolling from his mouth like he can’t keep them inside.

“Shit, ‘m gonna come,” Louis hisses, and Harry draws back as much as he can in his position.

“Want you to come on my face,” he says, muffled. Louis seems to get the gist, though, moving down slightly so that his cock, wet with precome and peeking out from the waistband of the pants, is just in front of his lips. He pulls the panties down almost entirely and it only takes two strokes before he’s coming, almost collapsing onto Harry’s face with the force of it. Harry can feel the sticky wetness over his lips and cheeks, completely blissed out by it. Louis crawls further down his body, tucking a hand into his briefs and jerking him off slowly, kissing the taste of himself off of Harry’s lips.

“You were so good for me, baby,” he says. “Want you to come, now, want you to come for me like a good boy, yeah?”

Harry shudders through his orgasm, eyes shut and fingers clenching on Louis waist.

When he’s able to think in coherent sentences, he opens his eyes to see Louis looking at him with the fondest expression he’s ever seen on another human being’s face, eyes soft and mouth quirked in a little smile. “I take it you liked me in ladies’ underwear, then,” he says, joking but not in the harsh, sarcastic way he usually does. His voice is slightly hoarse and there are tear tracks down his face, which Harry has come to realise is a feature of him having his arse played with.

“Loved it,” Harry agrees. “Love you.”

“Course you do, babe. I loved it, too. Might have to think about doing it more often, if that’s what I get out of it.”

“Mm. Can we cuddle now?” Harry requests, holding out his arms.

“D’you not want to get cleaned up first? You’re gonna dry all crusty.”

“Worth it if you cuddle me.”

“Okay, love,” Louis smiles. “We’ll shower in the morning.”

***

They get their first couple’s tattoo a week later. Only, Louis insists on not calling it a couple’s tattoo, because it’s way too early for those. “It’s just that I’ve wanted a tattoo for ages, Haz. Nothing to do with you.” But the idea comes about after they’re talking about their dances, and Harry says how he’s always thought of Louis as anchoring him through those.

“Well, what’s an anchor without a rope,” Louis had said, kissing him. The analogy didn’t really make much sense, but now they’re getting it tattooed because, as Harry had said, ‘why not?’

Harry’s covering up his ‘I can’t change’ tattoo with it, says he “doesn’t need it any more.” Louis says he’ll miss it, and that Harry is being an idiot. Harry reminds him that, when they hold hands, their tattoos will line up. Louis shuts up.

In the tattoo parlour, Louis bites down on his lip so hard it bruises, refusing to let out a single sound of pain. Harry holds his hand and rubs over his knuckle, comforting as best he can.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he grits out.

When they’re finished, Harry almost cries because of how well his anchor fits with Louis’ rope and how much he wants to kiss over Louis’ wrist, where the tie is and where his pulse thrums. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

“It’s covered in gauze,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Yours is pretty, too, though. I’m really glad we did this. Even if it was really stupid of us.”

“How about next time I get your name tattooed on my butt,” Harry suggests.

“Oh my god, Harry, that was a romantic moment, and you just…for fuck’s sake, you’re the absolute worst. I hate you.”

“Hate you too, sunshine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for staying with me through this behemoth. i have spent so long writing this and it is my baby, so please rec it and share it with your friends and do whatever you can to get it out there (if you think it's any good, of course). down in the comments, i welcome constructive criticism and remember, kudos' only take a single click to leave.   
> i know this sounds absolutely desperate, but honest to god i have written smut inches away from my parents to give you this. appreciate it.   
> i love you all, especially if you talk to me down in the comments or (and you're more likely to get a reply here) at oopshidaisy on tumblr.   
> i don't have a beta or anyone so this is pretty much unedited. if you point out errors i will virtually kiss you.   
> -ellie xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> i would really like comments about a) how amazing i am, b) how to hyperlink things in notes because y'all need to see the goddamn knickers harry wears they are BEAUTIFUL and c) tell me about any mistakes please this is mostly unedited because i wanted to get it up by today
> 
>  
> 
> oh and if you like it tell your friends ;)  
> (and loaded-gunn because ren is my idol)
> 
>  
> 
> (([my tumblr is oopshidaisy](http://oopshidaisy.tumblr.com/) go check me out and talk to me because ily))
> 
> update 01/17: wow!! this just reached 1000 kudos and i just wanted to thank everyone so much for reading this and leaving feedback and enjoying it almost as much as i enjoyed writing it. love you guys!! xx


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